The Claim
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 1872-sequel to "The Treasure"- Erik & Christine face their biggest challenge yet upon their return to France, as the dark mystery surrounding him unravels to shocking revelations that threaten even their very lives and those of their loved ones… E/C, R/M
1. The Return

**A/N: You asked for it - you got it. ;-) The sequel to _The Treasure_ is here …  
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**Like _The Quest_ and _The Treasure_, this third story in the series is a fantasy with a timeline of actual history - my ideas of what could have happened based on a hidden plot I saw in movie, where Erik is king of a musical (unseen) realm and Christine is his queen. After reading reviews of previous stories, I noticed it was difficult for some to adapt to Erik being called king - (though he was also elected a king of gypsies - they really do have those - and predestined to save that band) - but I will try not to refer to him by that title so often. :))  
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**As all my stories tend to do, at times this will have angst, mystery, romance, drama, danger, humor, adventure, and everything else that makes up real life - dramaticized, of course, for fiction. :)**** Rated M for sexual situations (some in detail with no holds barred, so please be warned - I'll flag those chapters), also some violence and other adult situations. With all that said, this first chapter has a reason to be rated M.**

**Based on the characters we know and love from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera, no part of which is mine. Reviews & constructive criticism are welcome, and just a note - when I hear from you, I'm encouraged and more apt to work on that given story - which likely means a faster update. Just saying ...(I'm currently writing & posting chapters of 3 PotO phanfics now- haha -am I crazy?) That said - I'm also working to update _Come to Me_ and _Symphony in the Twilight_ soon (neither of which is hidden plot related), and thank you for all the reviews, favorites, and PMs from those two! :D…Also, to those who requested E/C manips (found on my account honeyphan at deviantART) I have your requests on a list, and thanks for your patience. I'll be doing one for this story soon too! :) For those following me on Youtube (I'm honeyphan2 there) - I do plan to make more E/C PotO music vids based on hidden plot (I currently have 6 or 7 of them - with hp symbolism shown through effects, clips used, etc - most with songs by Within Temptation, and others) - also I still plan to finish my video story of _Phantom Christmas Carol_ this month - (crossing fingers, hoping days grow longer not shorter- haha - yeah, okay. Sorry for all that shameless promotion - it's the only way I know to give a mass announcement. :))**

**And now, the moment many of you have been waiting for, I give you…**

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><p><strong>The Claim <strong>

_Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. _

_~ Confucius_

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1872

(Paris, France)

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_The time has come to be aware. The continuance of the mystery is at hand._

_Take care that none will perish…_

No voluble whisper, hardly even a lucid thought, the eerie sense of expectation prodded Dominique to grab a candelabrum of five tall tapers and carry it with her to light the way throughout her small, dark dwelling. The fire that destroyed her old tenement during the fall of the Commune more than a year ago forced her once to find new lodgings, and soon, necessity would cause her to abandon these cramped rooms as well.

A vigilant glance out the lone window that looked onto an empty street told her all was quiet as it should be in the stillness of early nightfall. The street lamp at the corner had been lit and beneath stood an armed soldier, rifle in hand, there to ensure that potential insurrectionists did not again attempt to gather. Not another soul could be spotted on either side of her viewpoint, the area enshrouded in thick darkness.

She exhaled a nervous breath, shaking her head at vain imaginings brought about by previous ghastly experiences, and returned to her room. The minutes fell away and became lost in the studied concentration of packing her trunk.

"Madame Giry!"

Jean-Claude's sudden shout erupted from the parlor, causing her to drop the extra chemise she had just folded. She had not heard the boy come in, but then, the little braggart thief had spent almost his entire lifetime of twelve years sneaking into locales forbidden. She picked up her fallen clothing and placed it in the open trunk, wondering what mischief her unlikely ward had created this time.

"Madame…"

Her door flew open, his dark silhouette filling the entrance at the threshold of her bedroom, the directive she had long ago given to knock clearly forgotten in his excitement. He came further into the light, his fair hair tossed in riotous waves that reached well below his ears, his face dirty and blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. In the last year he had grown and now stood taller than her.

"Someone is here to see you."

"_Here?_" she said incredulously. "At this time of evening?"

The boy shrugged as if he had no answer and Dominique looked past him, the shock of his unforeseen announcement greater than the scolding that vanished from her tongue. She could hear nothing in the other rooms and hesitated. Had the soldier come to her door to make an arrest?

Citizens of Paris were imprisoned and put on trial daily, the crimes of the Commune still being addressed, with men, women, even children younger than Jean-Claude carted off and brought to harsh justice. But she had done nothing wrong, could not imagine anyone who might falsely accuse her, and she looked at the boy in grave suspicion. "Tell me that you did not steal again. And do wash your hands and face. You look as if you've been crawling through the sewers."

"It's not a soldier."

"Not a soldier?" she repeated pensively, "Then who…?"

She left her small boudoir, sweeping past the boy without waiting for another shrug in response, and moved toward the parlor. Noticing Jean-Claude had taken it upon himself to stir up the flames of the hearth and light several candles, she paused in confusion at the curious sight of three olive-skinned children with raven black hair, and one fair, towheaded boy finding warmth near the fire. The two boys appeared to be approximately Jean-Claude's age. The two girls huddled together by the wall, arm in arm, a cloak's hood fully covering the smallest of them.

Dominique wondered if Jean-Claude only pretended ignorance and had brought these children home in the hope of her feeding them a meal, as she once granted him when first they banded forces and became strange allies - but by the superior quality of their clothing, neither ragged nor dirty, these children did not appear homeless or starving. Exhaustion seemed their only frailty, judging by the weary slope of their shoulders and how they used the wall as a brace. One girl darted a wary glance at Dominique from dark, heavy-lidded eyes but said nothing and held the small girl closer. The boys, though not appearing anxious, looked at her in uncertainty.

Stunned to find so many strangers in her home and at so late an hour, she noticed movement in the room beyond, also now lit by candlelight and looked through the open door of the parlor.

With their backs to her, a man of tall stature and wearing a fedora stood beside a woman, a hood covering her hair. Both wore long black traveling cloaks. The man held a very small child who slept on his shoulder while he slightly parted the drape from which both the man and woman peered out, their heads close as they whispered to one another. Their manner was furtive, as if they hid from someone or something.

Dominique drew herself up. "May I help you?" she asked somewhat stiffly and in full command, letting these unsolicited visitors know from the start that she did not appreciate the interruption and at such a perilous hour for visiting. Did they not realize the penalty for breaking the nightly curfew? That they had done so could bring all of them under suspicion, if the armed sentinel should take it upon himself to investigate.

The two shared a glance and the woman turned slowly, lowering the hood from her head.

Dominique stared in wonder at her sweet, angelic features, both strangely innocent and self-assured, her intelligent brown eyes and wide determined mouth belonging to a face that glowed a fair shade of brown from time spent outdoors with no hat to shield the pale skin. Other than those marked changes, the unruly wealth of long, dark chestnut ringlets was entirely recognizable, as was the joyful smile the young woman bestowed as she held out her hands to her former ballet instructor and childhood guardian.

"Madame Giry."

"_Christine_…_?_"

Dominique gasped her name in staggered realization, her eyes burning with a sudden rush of tears. Christine gave a smiling little nod and they both moved forward, Dominique at last pulling the young woman she had always thought of as a daughter into her welcoming embrace. She kissed her cheeks and regarded her with equal measures of happiness and disbelief.

"I wasn't sure I would ever again see you, my dear."

"Did I not tell you that one day we would return?" The man spoke in quiet gentle mockery, his beautiful voice, low and deep like rich velvet - unique - and unmistakable to behold.

Dominique drew a second startled breath, turning her fixed attention his way. She gaped in shock, knowing she would never have recognized him had she not heard him speak.

He still towered above her at a lofty height, his build lean and strong, his manner enigmatic and poised, with a touch of the undomesticated in his bearing and in his eyes. His every action was one of poetic grace as he closed the slim distance between them. His manner of dress as impeccable as always, he looked like a true nobleman, his wife wearing the gown of a lady. But that is where all similarities ended to the man she remembered.

The ebony wig a thing of history, his hair had lightened to a fair brown in color, the nearby candlelight picking up tints that gleamed lustrous dark golden from living above the earth, in the sun. The straight thick strands held the slightest hint of a natural curl at the ends, brushing the slope of his shoulders in a Bohemian manner, and his skin was lightly bronzed. Her first time to look at him in well over a year, with the knowledge of the volatile secret she had uncovered, and she could see evidence of the de Chagny legacy in his blood. His flesh no longer was bone pale, befitting the name of Ghost, but radiated with health and vitality. The only indication that this was indeed her master was the fitted mask he wore on the right side of his face - no longer a stark white or bandit's black, this mask resembled the color of his skin and would be impossible to note at a quick glance.

"Mon Dieu," she whispered, stunned at the overall change in him.

He wryly chuckled, the familiar sound and the twisted smile he gave her a welcome relief to see that not all things had altered and there were some traits still recognizable. She didn't know whether to embrace him in welcome as she had done with Christine, curtsy in respect, or incline her head in servitude and await his command.

"Does that mean you approve?" His tone light, he offered his hand to her in greeting.

Thrown off balance by such an affable gesture coming from the infamous Opera Ghost of legend, she hesitated. "It is a marked improvement, sire."

Relieved to see them both alive and well and clearly happy, she clasped her hands warmly around his large slim one then stepped forward and gave him a quick, awkward hug, casting aside her usual strict demeanor. The tiny girl in his arms stirred, lifting a head of tousled brown curls from his shoulder. She stared at Dominique sourly through his smoky green eyes, before turning her head away and again resting it on her solid pillow of comfort.

"Now that we have returned to Paris, you must never again refer to me by title," he quietly warned. "It is too dangerous…"

Dominique gave a vague nod, still in a state of disbelieving shock to leave her bedroom of her once empty home and find the King and Queen of Music standing inside her threadbare parlor. They were to her like family; she had taken them in as young children, saving each from a miserable fate, aiding and serving them throughout her years at the opera house…

Do you _remember_ my name?" he asked in clear amusement when she continued to stare at him with wide eyes, still not entirely sure this wasn't all a dream and Jean-Claude had truly approached to tell her someone wished to speak with her. Would she wake up with a start on her bed, exhaustion having overtaken her during her mad rush to pack?

"Yes, I remember. Erik…" The name sounded foreign to her lips, but by his answering nod he seemed pleased. "It might be difficult to put into use, sire - er, Maestro…? But I will try."

For over twenty-two years she addressed him by those two titles alone. Only in the month before he left did he divulge his true name to her. She understood that his veiled identity as a sovereign of music must remain hidden - the same rule had applied for silence within his opera house kingdom, even if he had buried himself below ground and away from sight - then, because he had been under the Phantom's dark curse and believed the dark spirit's lies. Though for one dreadful, memorable night on the stage of the Don Juan, he attempted to break free of those invisible chains and the people had briefly glimpsed his identity through his song and in his music. But the message had failed to take root. They had so quickly forgotten, never again tried to understand. Other than Christine, she and Meg were the only ones who ever did.

"If that is difficult for you, our present title under which we are now masquerading is sure to cause great confusion." He pulled in one side of his cloak and gave a slight, gallant bow as much as he could while holding the child. "The Count and Countess de la Vega, at your service, Madame."

Dominique felt at a loss, stunned by his ease of charm, his green eyes actually _twinkling?-_ Was this the diabolical Opera Ghost who haunted the theater for more than two decades? The troubled, tortured man who often regarded her through vacant eyes of sorrow and regret in that last month before he made his departure? In all the years she had known him, distance was his mode of choice.

"Of course, the obtainment of said title was not given freely. We found the need to … _borrow_ it for our return to this realm of civilization," he added, his dark mocking tone and the mysterious, burning flicker in his eyes glimpses of the man she remembered.

She had no doubt that "borrow" meant "steal," and wondered if the true Count de la Vega still lived and breathed. She recalled how in the flash of an instant her master's temperament could plummet into inscrutable fathoms of despair or spiral into a twisting whirlwind of fury.

"Mm- da! Mm- da," the tot babbled and whimpered in complaint, fidgeting and clearly unhappy to be kept from her rest by the impromptu reunion.

Christine stepped closer to Erik, and Dominique watched his arm protectively encircle her within his cloak, as if no conscious thought were given to the act.

"Have you somewhere for Angelique to rest?" she asked. "The journey has been very tiring for one so young."

"Your daughter," Dominique stated the obvious. "She's lovely. And the other children?"

"We must go," Erik addressed Christine in a low tone so as not to disturb the child, then turned to Dominique. "Explanations will have to wait until tomorrow. We only just arrived to the city and I must secure lodging for my family."

"You've not yet had a chance to obtain rooms at a hotel?"

"That is our next destination. When first we visited the burned out tenement, a woman who remembered you gave us your new location. As it is on the way, we stopped here first. We will return in the morning."

"No! - please wait, Maestro. You cannot leave. You must stay the night, as my guests," Dominique turned to lead them to her bedroom, not waiting for his concurrence. "The city is under an enforced curfew. And though you look nothing like communist sympathizers in those clothes, you could still be in danger of arrest should you travel the streets at this hour. Paris has been under martial law since the Commune fell…"

"Ah. The reason for the soldier stationed at the corner and those throughout the city…"

Erik spoke in somber realization, and she wondered if he earlier feared that they also still searched for him, for the murders of Messieurs Piangi and Buquet and for his role in the opera house fire. If a soldier were to glimpse his mask, questions could arise. The opera house tragedy lay buried beneath a skeletal surface of current dilemmas in the memories of a victimized city - hidden away in the past but not quite forgotten, easy to break through and unearth - and that could lead to a host of new dangers…

"Oui, they are posted all over Paris." Dominique turned to him as they left the parlor. "Did anyone stop you?"

He nodded. "Upon entering Paris, yes, we were detained. Our borrowed title fooled the insolent soldier, and the manner in which we traveled convinced him we were no threat."

"I think, my dear husband, that you had the poor boy shaking in his boots, what with the manner in which you threw our 'borrowed' title around and threatened his post - ultimately hinting that you would speak to his superior about placing him on the opposite side of a firing line if he did not let us continue without delay."

Erik quietly chuckled at Christine's glib retort, the eyes that he turned down to her adoring.

"The autocratic runs in my blood, my love. First as a hapless ruler over a pathetic lot of ex-junk managers who knew even less about an opera; then as a predestined King to a band of ill-equipped gypsies; and now as a Count of pretense. I was born royal and destined to be noble - my blood runs both red and blue, did you not know?"

Christine shook her head in weary amusement and smiled up at him.

Fascinated by the revelation of his recent status Dominique withheld a shiver at the accuracy of his satirical statement and the knowledge that one day he would be entitled to become a Count in verity. It wasn't her place to speak, though she felt ill at ease to withhold such a startling truth from her master of over two decades, and an even higher threshold of anxiety should he discover the identity of the family to which he had been born, especially while under her roof. Such a revelation could not bode well, with all that was involved. With _who_ was involved...

For all his changed appearance, from their words spoken and the hint of danger still lurking in his eyes she sensed his temperament and propensity to fly into rages had gone unchanged.

"It is most fortunate that you were able to escape the soldier's notice. Not everyone has been so blessed. Arrests are made weekly, trials are the regular order of the day - and you do not wish to tempt fate and have someone recognize you by description with regard to your former…exploits." She tempered her words, so the children would not understand.

Erik and Christine exchanged a somber look, and she nodded a little as if in agreement.

"With that said, my home isn't much to offer, but I would be most relieved if you would remain for the night…" Dominique continued, hoping to persuade him since he had not yet accepted her invitation. "I must leave Paris tomorrow, but I wish to speak with both of you before I go."

Erik nodded his consent. "Very well. Then we will stay. One moment."

He turned his attention to the boys. "Armando, Cedric, bring in blankets from the coach and instruct El Capitán to find lodging for the horses. You and the girls may sleep in front of the hearth." He looked Dominique's way. "Our driver will need shelter as well, but he will not mind sleeping on the floor. He has done so, many a time."

Dominique nodded, taking no offense at his giving orders in her home, finding it natural, even a relief to let someone else take charge of the situation for a change. He had commanded all present within his vicinity almost since she had known him as a boy, and she doubted that would ever alter.

Jean-Claude, who to her relieved surprise had lost most of the dirt on his face making him look less like a street urchin, approached the other children from the far corner of the room.

Christine looked at him curiously. "Who is that? He looks familiar."

"I assure you that you don't know him. We helped one another during the Revolution and he lives here now. There is much to say to reacquaint our lives after almost two years, Christine, but for tonight you should rest. I imagine you have been on the road all day. You and the Maestro may have my room. I hope that will suffice."

"Where will you sleep?" Christine asked.

"The sofa in the parlor will suit my needs. I have slept there before."

"Madame … where is Meg?"

Christine watched Erik lay their sleeping child on the bed and cover her with a blanket then looked at Dominique.

She hesitated, not wishing to delve into lengthy explanations that would take more than a few minutes to relate. "She's not here at present."

"Is she well? Her injury - it has healed? I was so worried for both of you when Raoul told us of the fighting, and of the break in Meg's leg."

"Yes, she has recovered as well as can be expected. We will speak of all that tomorrow too. For now, the girls can have her bed. There's no need for them to sleep on the floor."

Dominique turned to go and prepare the room, startled to see both girls now standing in the doorway. The one with the hooded cloak also wore a veil that could now be seen clearly. The opaque blue cloth rested just beneath her huge, thickly lashed dark eyes, covering the middle of her nose and the remainder of her face. Dominique stared without being aware she did so, then realized her rudeness and looked away.

The Maestro turned from the bed and saw them.

"Narilla? Is there a problem?"

"It is Luminitsa, su Majestad -"

"You must now call me by the title I instructed you," he interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. "We are no longer in Spain and must not draw unwanted attention to ourselves."

"Si, my lord Count."

His eyes briefly slid shut as if disgusted. "'Sir' or 'monsieur' will do well enough among us," he intoned dryly. "What is the trouble with your sister?"

"To see the soldiers badly frightened her. Nothing I say or do will calm her…"

The littlest of the four unexplained children trembled, ducking her head further as if to draw completely into her blue woolen cloak and disappear. She looked no more than six, her sister, perhaps fourteen, and again Dominique wondered just who they were. After hearing the Maestro's brief recounting of the startling role he played in the past year she assumed them to be gypsies.

That he would give aid to any child of a Romani further baffled her mind when she considered how horribly that sect mistreated him as a boy in their traveling fair. She had been there, had seen the vicious beating he received for turning away from a jeering crowd and playing the cymbals of his monkey toy. Later, he killed his jailer. Dominique had been the sole witness to that shocking incident … and to so much more involving the Phantom of the Opera.

Erik somberly nodded as if he understood the girl's explanation. He took a seat at the foot of the bed and twisted around to look at the small girl, holding out his hand.

"Come, Little One," he said quietly.

The meek child, who earlier looked as if she might scurry away to find a hole to crawl in beneath the warped floorboards, did not hesitate to move toward him. He drew her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her within his cloak, then spoke a musical cadence of words in a foreign tongue. The girl visibly calmed and nodded, resting her head against his chest.

Dominique looked on in mystified amazement.

Christine smiled at her. "Luminitsa will sleep with us tonight."

"The bed is not large enough to hold the four of you." Dominique again studied the bewildering sight of the former Opera Ghost - who had shaped terror into the hearts of countless men - now the sole comfort to a tiny, frightened girl.

"We will manage," Christine assured.

"Then I will make up a bed for her on the floor with blankets."

"Yes, thank you, Madame. That would be wonderful."

"Christine, now that you are a married woman, you must address me by my given name."

Christine stared at her as if she had been asked to commit sacrilege.

"As difficult as it is for you to address Erik by name, after so long knowing him, it is twice as hard for me to speak to you without the respected form of address," she softly demurred.

"Yes, my dear. But this is a new season. For all of us. It is time to lay the past to rest, and perhaps we will help one another with this need for change. Hmm?"

With a strong sense that such changes of address were minimal when compared to what would be required for this couple to accept in the unforeseeable future, Dominique tensely smiled and laid her hand on Christine's shoulder in parting.

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**xxXxXxx**

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Erik brought two chairs from the kitchen table to rest against the edge of the bed as a precaution for Angelique should she roll over in her sleep. Madame Giry bade them a pleasant night's rest and closed the door.

Erik removed his hat and cape, ascot, waistcoat, and boots while Christine tended to settling Luminitsa down for the night. The child lay snuggled in a cocoon of blankets on the floor. With the gypsy way of life, the children were accustomed to sleeping on the ground, on thin pallets, or on pillows, so Christine did not fear for the Little One's lack of comfort.

She slipped off her cape and shoes, leaving her dress in place, and moved to where Erik stretched out on the bed in shirtsleeves and trousers, his feet dangling off the edge. She smiled at the sight, wondering if there was a bed made that was long enough to accommodate her tall husband. He scooted toward the middle to make more room for her and she sat down at the edge, facing him as his hand rested against her hip. Without a word, she carefully lifted the mask from his face, her fingers pushing back the barely visible strand secured beneath a layer of his hair. She bent forward to kiss the ravaged cheek and winced once she pulled away.

"It's as bad as that?" he quipped dryly, his one dark eyebrow sailing up.

She shook her head in a long-suffering manner and gave a disgusted grimace to the mask she tossed to a nearby table. "I still think that the dyes you used from the berries to make it this color are causing this reaction to your skin. It is so red and inflamed, my love, and your skin is fragile enough as it is." She furrowed her brow, gently tracing her fingertips along his twisted temple to his pronounced cheekbone. "I wish you didn't have to wear the horrid thing at all…"

He grabbed her hand and brought the fingertips to his lips, kissing them. "We are in civilized territory now, Christine. I have no choice." His smile came crooked. "Amusing, is it not, that in a _gypsy_ camp in the midst of a forest I could roam free without a mask, secure in the knowledge I would not be ostracized? But here in cultured society, among those who consider all gypsies uncouth, if I were to bare my face, they would hunt me down and cage me as an animal for that alone? Such irony!"

Erik wryly chuckled but Christine found no humor in the situation.

Since aiding the gypsy children of that band by helping to free their captive families, in his recent dealings with the Spanish Romani Erik had worked to lay aside his long-held bitterness with all those of their race, and had lived among them, acting as their chosen king. Yet in all that time, he never truly opened his heart to call any of their number "friend." The men and women had been too much in awe of the Frenchman with the deformed face, the anticipated savior of their ancient prophetic legend as well as a ruler of music - which to the gypsy was as sacred as gold. Only with their children had Erik lowered his defensive barrier of aloof distance, and only with a select few - those orphans they had brought with them, and Armando.

"Perhaps we should have stayed in Spain. At least there, you were shown respect."

"No, mon amour, it was time to return, whatever the consequences. You would not wish for Angelique to grow up as wild and untamed as the gypsies, would you?" he teased gently, seeing her apprehension by the frown between her eyes.

She ignored his attempt at levity and spoke the cause of her fear. "After all that has happened in Paris, with the revolution and the fall of the Commune - after all that Madame told us - surely they will have forgotten you by now?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Yet Madame doesn't think so," Christine said with a little sigh of despair. "And neither do I."

With his arm solid at her back, he drew her closer. She nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder, drawing her arm over his chest and burrowing into his warmth. "I could not bear to lose you, Erik, even for a moment. We have endured far too many separations."

"I'll not let anything come between us again, Christine. You have no reason to fear. Those fool soldiers will not learn my identity, would not even think to draw the comparison - that one of Spain's wealthiest nobles, a Count by title, was also the recluse of a ghost that haunted the Paris Opera? It would be too much for their feeble minds to grasp."

He gave a soft, scoffing laugh but she shivered, still not convinced, and his voice came soothing.

"We will exercise caution, Mon Ange. If asked, it is as we agreed: my face was scarred by a fire in my childhood home of Spain, making the mask a necessity. Miguel will support the story, that I am the cousin of the former Don who died, also in a fire, and the sole heir to the fortune of the de la Vegas. The captain's reputation will aid us - giving influence over anyone who might dare question further."

She nodded against him, wishing she could be as sure of the unlikelihood of discovery as he was. All was silent for a time as they drew quiet comfort from holding one another.

Christine broke the silence.

"Did you notice how strangely Madame acted when I spoke of Meg? Why would she refuse to answer a simple question?" She sat up to look at him, her brow again creased in worry. "You don't think there's something wrong, do you? Do you suppose that's why Madame still plans on leaving, when we have only just arrived…?"

"I think, my Restless Rose that we shall uncover all of that mystery tomorrow too. She did not refuse to answer. She said only that it would be best to wait to engage in such a discussion." He drew his hand to the back of her head to bring her down again, giving her a soft kiss. "For now, you should rest."

"I should, and you would think after weeks of traveling I would be sleepy, but having reached our destination, I find that I am nervous with ill contained energy." She studied his parted lips, drawing her index finger down their fullness, then looked into his smoky eyes. "And you, dear husband, are you so very sleepy?"

A grin curled the corners of his mouth. "What do you suggest, sweet wife?"

She smiled in gleeful mischief. "If we are very quiet…"

He curled his grasp around her finger and slipped the tip into his mouth, brushing it with his tongue, eliciting her shiver, this one of pleasure. Slowly he pulled her hand away. "We were quiet at the inn last night…"

"Yes, but the children are exhausted. Surely they will sleep through the morning _this_ time…" she softly coaxed and blew out the candle.

Moonlight slipped through a chink in the curtains, washing half the bed where Angelique slept in a muted patch of white, leaving their half in shadow. A quick glance from both assured them their littlest Rose did indeed sleep soundly on her stomach, her head turned away.

At the Spanish villa, they had shared their bedchamber with their daughter of nine months, whose cradle rested in an alcove hidden by veils, though when they secured a new residence Erik determined that would change. She was blossoming more each day; it was time she had her own room and her parents again enjoyed absolute privacy. And Luminitsa remained out of view and bundled within blankets, exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the evening. At the inns where they stopped over, they often were crowded into one room, for lack of space. On the rare occasion they were able to secure two chambers, Christine didn't think it wise to put the boys in with the girls, especially since Cedric was no boy, and Erik grudgingly agreed. It was high time Celeste confronted her fears and came out of her disguise. Yet having played the role of Angel for nine years while imprisoned by a dark spirit they called Phantom, Erik was hardly one to demand change.

Since Angelique had come into their lives, gone were the days and nights of making love at whatever hour pleased them. They soon found that with a baby came demands and the need to create an occasion grew apparent - his motto now being to seize whatever opportunity arose, with little regard to time or place. In five weeks, he had only made love to his wife four times on the journey, in spare moments quickly seized, and little else, though not for want of trying!

Slipping her hand beneath his neck, Christine captured his full attention and pressed her lips to his. Erik hungrily reciprocated, needing no persuasion, and carefully moved them so he was over her.

Their tongues entwined, eagerly revisiting the warm enchantment of passion, the embers of their need for each other ever glowing, quick to ignite into scorching flame. His agile fingers went to her bodice, swiftly unfastening hooks until he could slip his hand inside. Squeezing her breast, his thumb brushed her nipple and she groaned. The sweetest music, but tonight unwise.

He gave a whisper of a chuckle, even softer words. "Hush, my love. Remember, we must be silent…"

She gave a little nod, biting her lip, and he brought his mouth down to lave the erect bud and gently suckle. She drew a sharp rasp of air, digging her fingertips into his side, her hand having found its way into the loose folds of his shirt.

Erik would love to linger and rediscover every curve and hollow that gave his beautiful Angel delight, would love to bare her naked to his touch, but knew that their slice of stolen passion could soon be interrupted. Reaching down, he pulled the hem of her gown upward, at the same time pulling the blanket with it to cover them. His mouth found hers again. Beneath the coverlet her hand moved to stroke his hardness while his fingers slid up her thigh, brushing her tight curls. He softly groaned inside her mouth to find her so wet.

"I have missed us, dear Erik," she whispered against his chin, her fingers finding his trouser fastenings and at once freeing him. "It has been seven full days…"

He needed no reminder of the number that marked his torture, and his searching lips quickly found the sensitive spot near her ear.

A whimper to their side froze them. They turned their heads in wariness to look, otherwise remaining motionless - did not dare even speak as they attempted to stifle their elevated breaths.

Silence returned, and they waited, thankful when it blissfully remained….

Erik dipped his fingers inside to caress her velvet walls. An involuntary moan escaped Christine's throat and he pressed his mouth to hers, catching the forbidden sound. She curled her fingers around his shaft, stroking in like tempo. Another sleepy murmur came, this time from the floor.

They stopped, again frozen in the night.

After a second lapse of silence, a giggle escaped her lips.

"You find the oddest times humorous, Mon Ange," he whispered, curbing a groan of frustration, his need for her escalating by the second.

"You must see the amusement in this, my love - us married well over a year and sneaking about like youths afraid to be caught."

A grin flickered at the corner of his lips as he spread her legs wider and fluidly mounted her. "You are worth every risk and more, my oh so Passionate Rose," he breathed and slowly plunged in to the hilt.

She loudly gasped. Again he captured the sound with his mouth, stifling his own groan at the drenched heat of her. Her hands moved inside his trousers to cling to his bare bottom.

Five steady, slow, delicious strokes later and the inevitable happened.

"Mm-da…"

Erik pulled out of Christine so fast he almost came off the bed. A hasty glance toward their daughter showed her head of dark curls lift.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, fumbling to put everything back in place.

"Erik, language," she whispered, sounding no less frustrated. "Remember, we have a child now."

"Oh, yes, that is quite apparent, Christine."

While she pulled down her skirts, he again moved to his former position in the middle of the bed.

His naughty little Angel squirmed on the mattress, her head falling back down, her frustrated whimpers growing. He muttered beneath his breath and shook his head, reaching for her and pulling her up to lie on his stomach.

"What ails you, my Little Impish Thorn?"

"Erik," Christine chided on the edge of a giggle. "At least we got a bit further than last night…"

"Somehow, my dear, that gives me little consolation."

"But it _is_ progress. And surely, now that we are in Paris, it won't be so difficult to find an opportunity to be alone as it was on the journey…"

Hearing her mother's voice, Angelique turned her head and reached for Christine as she began to hook her bodice. She shared a look with Erik.

"I think she wants…"

"Mm." Grim-faced he obliged, laying the child in the middle. Angelique grabbed Christine's breast and latched onto the taut nipple as if she hadn't eaten in days though it had been hours. "At least one of us is having our appetite met tonight." He knew he was being selfish and acting childish, but after seven days - he felt he had that right.

"I think she must be upset with all the traveling, going from one country to another. It's been such a change for her, new people, new places …" Christine tried to comfort him. "Perhaps she also senses something amiss, what with the soldier stopping us earlier. This is the first time she's wanted to nurse at night in well over a month."

Angelique grabbed Christine's other breast with her chubby hand in territorial fashion, her eyes wide, her expression set and wary, as if she were afraid Erik might latch onto it and she was staking her claim. He loved his daughter, she was Papa's little girl, but there were these moments when he resented her hold over Christine. Foolish. Petty. Childish. Yes, he was all those things for even allowing the thought to enter his mind, but he couldn't help how he felt.

"If what we suspect is true," Erik said quietly, gently pulling one of the baby's short ringlets, "You will need to wean her soon."

"I don't suspect it. You do."

"Why else would you be sick for two mornings in a row - though I agree, the probability that we could have actually created another child is slim when given the number of opportunities we have been allotted to do so."

She giggled. "It only takes once, Mon Ange."

He didn't know whether to throttle her for her seeming ability to recover with such ease and grace when he was a taut mass of pent up frustration - or perhaps to kiss her senseless until she begged for breath and mercy, neither of which he would give.

"And if it were up to our assorted brood, based on these past months of experience, 'once' would be the sum total of our private encounters, my dear."

She sighed. "It won't always be like this, surely."

"No, indeed. Another baby will make it that much more difficult."

She looked suddenly worried. "You don't want another child?"

His irritation had taken reign of his tongue, his heart remote from such an idea, though at one time he would have done all in his power to prevent the occurrence. Instantly he set her mind at ease, leaning forward to kiss the furrow from her brow and ignoring Angelique's small hand that tried to push him away as if he were an annoying gnat.

"I never said that. I only state the facts - adding another child to our growing family, both the creation of our loins and the orphans we have collected, will not aid in initiating exclusive moments for us to share." His hand strayed to her belly. "But I will love this child as much as I love Angelique."

"Erik, I'm not pregnant."

"So you say."

"My breasts aren't even tender," she insisted. "They were both times before."

"Perhaps you fail to notice, because of Angelique."

"That's silly," she scoffed. "I think I would know if I were with child …I was probably sick from some fleeting illness, or more likely my stomach did not agree with the inn's greasy offerings. Each inn has had fare so much different than the gypsies' stews…"

Erik saw fit not to argue. He remembered how her moods swung like a pendulum when she carried Angelique.

Their daughter's eyes had closed, her swallowing coming less fierce until her hold on Christine slipped from her tiny mouth. Christine fastened her bodice then reached to intertwine her slender fingers with Erik's.

"One thing I will promise here and now, Mon Ange, is that no matter how many children we have, I will always make time for us. I love you, Erik."

"You are my breath and my heart, sweet Christine."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Facing one another, they looked into each other's eyes, their hands linked, with their daughter now slumbering contentedly between them. Soon Christine's eyelids also grew heavy and he watched her lashes flutter closed. In time, he also slept, and all was peaceful once more…

Deep into the night, a scream rent the air, the terrified sound of it curdling Erik's blood and tearing him from slumber.

.

**xxXxXxx**

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><p><strong>AN: I decided to go with a little of everything for an intro. Mystery, drama, danger, romance, humor, etc…and my trademark cliffie. Haha (You guys really didn't think I would start things out calm, did you? Perish the thought! ;-))**

**Anyway, hope you like the start of this…**


	2. An Invitation

**A/N: I apologize for the delay in updating any stories- work issues came up. Then I got sick, then had even more work to catch up! :P Also, for this story, (and I posted it in the other story but realize not everyone here reads all of them)- I've found the need to go back and read The Quest & The Treasure to reacquaint myself with the details before I wrote more to get it all straight in my head again (especially since there are so many subplots). Thank you for the fantastic reviews! :) And now…**

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><p><strong>II<strong>

.

Meg stood near the open hearth and stared, unseeing, at the envelope in her hand. The flames jumped from the logs as if eager to shoot toward her fingers at sensing new fuel to burn.

She should let them.

Shaking her head at such a ludicrous imagining, she forced herself to think logically.

Why should she receive this - now - after all this time? Last year, she had hoped for such a missive and sent the boy to deliver her letter in the credulous weeks before her beloved Paris burned in hell. When months passed and she received no answer she took the silence as a reply and dismissed her girlish expectations as foolish and impossible. All of them cremated without a backward glance, giving off the pungent smoke of their unreality, like so many of her infantile dreams.

Had her mother not told her the truth of the baron's dislike? - that is, when she had finally _chosen_ to speak the truth.

Meg clamped her lips together, the sparks of her anger rekindled. It wasn't so much that Mère had lied. Meg would be hypocritical to fault her for a deception as many times as she had bent the truth when confronted with a misdeed. It was in the telling of that truth - what Mère's lie had cost Meg - that Meg suffered. And for that she could never forgive her mother. She had destroyed the final remnant of Meg's dreams, no matter that she'd been pathetic to hope for what could never be.

Even if she wasn't nameless and her mother wasn't a whore, Vicomtes did not marry chorus girls. They bedded them and nothing more…

_He would have married Christine,_ a voice in her head taunted.

Meg crumpled the letter in one hand. Perhaps he might have gone through with the ceremony that he once planned with her dearest friend, who now lived out her dreams with another man, but _this_ was too much for any member of the nobility to handle. Not that she would ever again anticipate such a prospect…

"Even without knowing the blemish of my past, he didn't tarry long enough to prove any sort of devotion to me," she insisted bitterly to the empty air.

And why should he? Despite his passionate kisses and warm embraces, Christine was still obviously his heart's desire. Whatever emotion Raoul felt for Meg had been bound up in guilt for inadvertently causing the accident that injured her leg. Later, they had been two despondent survivors within a short span of time when rank held no importance and the only morsel of hope in a world gone mad had been found in each other's arms.

Madness, in itself.

Of course their stations in life mattered, were all that mattered. He would one day become a Comte, and she…she was no one. A blemish on her mother's family tree. A stain that could never be wiped clean. Nameless. Unwanted….

No. She would not pity herself. For a time she had. Now it was time to put that part of her life behind her as well, and move on…

Meg held her hand out over the flames, intending to drop the crumpled parchment and let it burn with the rest of her erstwhile ambitions. But she could not force her fingers to unclench from the weighty burden of the fine linen. After a moment she pulled her hand back and returned to the divan with a sigh. She caught sight of the servant, Marian, skulking in the shadows of the doorway and staring at her.

Meg shivered at the malevolent look in the woman's dark eyes. She failed to understand why her charming hostess would engage such a dour woman to be her ladies' maid. Ever since Meg became Lady Helena's unofficial companion, Marian had shown nothing but frigid animosity toward Meg.

When months before, Meg gave in to her curiosity and ventured to a wing of the house where she'd never been, the woman roughly grabbed her arm and warned her that those rooms were forbidden. When Meg broached the incident to Lady Helena, the dignified Dowager Comtesse seemed uncharacteristically nervous and agreed with Marian that Meg should never enter the abandoned rooms, giving the excuse that they were in disrepair and could be dangerous, at the same time telling Meg she would speak to Marian about her harsh behavior.

Within weeks after that, Meg became more than just a guest seeking shelter at Whiterose, as she and Lady Helena grew close. Since then, the somber and stern aide- even more so than Mère!- treated Meg as an enemy, which suited Meg fine. She had gone up against harsher antagonists while working at the opera house and could certainly manage one arrogant maidservant.

"Did you wish to speak with me?" Meg asked, lifting her chin. "Or was your original intent to stand there and spy?"

Marian stood as frigidly cold as ever, showing not one ounce of emotion. "My lady wishes you to know that she will join you presently."

Meg was surprised to learn the Dowager Comtesse had not yet retired. She usually went to bed before ten o'clock and it was nearing midnight.

"Thank you," she said just as stiffly. "Then I will wait." She took a seat on the divan, dismissing Marian from her mind, relieved when she heard the maid's stiff skirts swishing away.

Smoothing the parchment on her lap, Meg opened the flap with the broken seal that featured a crescent moon and five stars. As she'd done endless times since she received the envelope that morning, she pulled out its brief missive, hardly legible, the handwriting a sure travesty to any worthy scholar. The first lines were difficult to make out, but they seemed to refer to the missive she'd sent with the boy last year. The middle lines were easier to decipher:

_We must meet. Please come to the manor any time during the last week of October. It is my hope that you will not…_

Whatever hope the letter writer wished to bestow upon Meg was a wish known only to the sender of the communiqué. From there the sentence evened out in slanted scrawls with few loops or definitive variations of line to discern meaning. Nor did the bearer's signature offer a revelation of the sender, except for the surname which mirrored the crest: D' Legard. The origin of the letter was from _Le Manoir de Clair de Lune. _The childhood home of her mother. The current residence of her grandfather - the baron - who, according to her mother, despised her very existence.

Meg drew in a lengthy breath and stared into the flames.

After so long without word, she had taken his silence as a rejection. The letter had taken awhile to find her, dated almost two months previously, the time of the invitation to visit now upon her, since there was little more than one week left of this month. And what a strange invitation, to pinpoint that week, as with a specific purpose in mind. It almost seemed a trap, though Meg could find little reason why a snare would be prepared for her.

The baron had disowned her mother. Why should Meg be any different, especially with the label of bastardy she now bore? He could have left well enough alone and never contacted her. It would have hardly come as a surprise. No good could come from them meeting. There was no reason to hold on to such a letter.

Neither could she seem to let it go.

At a step on the parquet floor, she turned her head expectantly then smiled. "I had not thought you were one to keep such late hours. Could you not sleep? Would you like me to ring for some tea?"

"No, no." The lady Dowager Comtesse waved a dismissive hand as she moved to the sofa and joined Meg. The woman, who must be in her fifties, moved with the authoritative grace of a queen, a difficult feat to pull off in her current nightly attire of a dressing gown and slippers, with her graying fair locks wrapped up in bits of rags evident beneath her ruffled nightcap. She noticed Meg's surprised stare.

"Even I must have my little vanities," Lady Helena said with a soft laugh. "I never could abide my hair hanging limp and lifeless, despite that I always pin it up in the fashion of the day. Utter foolishness, but there you have it." She arched a brow. "You are up late as well."

"Yes…" Meg furtively slipped the letter beneath the edge of her skirts, not yet ready to speak of its contents. "The rain makes sleep difficult."

"This weather is spiteful." As if nature wished to emphasize its power over them, a thunderbolt struck near the manor, shaking the tall windows and casting the entire room in a series of rapid flashing white lights. Lady Helena flicked her eyes toward the ceiling. "As I was saying…" She looked for all the world as if she were addressing the sender of the lightning and Meg stifled a giggle.

"I must postpone our trip to the springs, my dear," Lady Helena continued with an apologetic smile.

"Oh, alright…" Her brief levity evaporated and Meg barely managed to conceal her disappointment. Upon her first and only week's visit to the healing springs, accompanying Lady Helena, Meg was disheartened to learn that for the waters to take effect as she wished them to, and thoroughly heal her bone so she could dance without pain or stiffness, would require additional visits. Nor was there any guarantee the waters would do as they were meant.

"We will attempt the outing again next month."

"Yes, of course." Meg faintly smiled. "May I ask, are you not feeling well?"

"This weather does tend to wear on my nerves, but no my dear, that isn't the reason for the delay." She hesitated as if uncertain whether to speak. "I declined telling you about the letter I received from your mother a fortnight ago. I had hoped you would feel differently about the conflict between you after all this time has passed."

"My mother wrote a letter?" The hackles of dread rose. "What did she say?"

"She is coming to Whiterose."

The Dowager Comtesse's smoky green eyes were steady, and Meg just prevented herself from the impulse of bolting off the sofa and running for the front door.

"When?"

"Her train arrives tomorrow afternoon."

Meg wanted to scream in distress. She wanted to accuse the Dowager Comtesse of duplicity, but of course could not speak ill to her hostess, who had gone far beyond the act of generosity in opening her home to Meg for more than a year, asking only for companionship, which Meg was happy to give. Older than her mother by at least twenty years, Lady Helena had become like a grandmother to her, since Meg had never known her own. Their acquaintance helped fill the hole of no longer having Mère in her life, and Meg knew that Lady Helena appreciated having her near, where before she only had her witch of a ladies' maid to speak to.

"Do you think you might find it in your heart to forgive her?" Lady Helena urged. "It's been more than a year, child. We, all of us, make mistakes. I have made more than my share…"

As she was apt to do, Lady Helena trailed off and sadly looked into the distance as though thinking of a time long past. Meg had told her of Mère withholding the truth of her heritage but never was able to admit the rest. That she had been born out of wedlock.

"I would rather not speak of it," Meg said, looking down at her lap.

"Of course, I understand, dear. I only wanted you to be aware that we will have a guest for the next several weeks."

Meg fingered the edge of the envelope. "Actually, since we won't be going to _Sérénité les bains_ this coming week, I thought I might visit…a - a friend."

"Oh? I wasn't aware that you made any new acquaintances outside of Whiterose. Someone in the village?"

"Actually, no. I received a letter only this morning and have decided to accept the invitation." Even as she spoke the words she could hardly believe she said them, given her earlier thoughts on the matter. But it seemed the perfect way out of this new dilemma. "That is, if you don't mind?"

The Dowager Comtesse studied her. "And if I do?"

Meg gathered her resolve. "Then I shall go, regardless. Forgive my impertinence, Lady Helena, I mean you no disrespect, but I am not yet ready to see my mother."

"Dear child, I do not think you impertinent, and you must cease to think of yourself as no more than a servant under my employ. This drafty citadel is much too vast for me to wander about in alone. I've enjoyed your companionship." She smiled, setting Meg partially at ease. "My home is yours, Meg, whenever you wish to stay. If you feel you must go, then certainly I'll not stop you, though I hope you'll reconsider."

Tears of gratitude clouded Meg's vision and she blinked them away. "Thank you. I think, for the present, this is best. Would it be too much to ask if I may have use of the wagon?"

"Nonsense, you'll take the carriage. Giles will drive you."

"But - I'm not certain how long I'll be away…"

She knew she couldn't remain absent for more than a week, the mysterious bearer of the letter didn't even suggest a one night stay, but Meg needed time to think before returning to face Whiterose's new guest. The unexpected news left her as nervous and befuddled as if the past year of relative tranquility had never occurred and she'd only just fled _Manoir de Ravenswolf_, the residence of the Comte de Chagny, Lady Helena's brother-in-law. Somehow, she would find accommodations, but wasn't about to concern her hostess with such a quandary when she'd already done so much for her.

"I rarely leave the estate and certainly can make necessary arrangements if the matter warrants such a need," Lady Helena insisted. "I'll hear no more of it. You'll take the carriage."

"You're too kind." Meg clutched the envelope and rose to kiss the woman's cheek. "I've never known anyone so generous."

Lady Helena's fair skin darkened to rose, but she waved off her praise. "The hour grows late, the storm seems to have subsided. I should retire."

"I suppose I should as well. I have a busy day ahead. Sleep well." Meg smiled in parting and headed for the stairs.

Before leaving the parlor, she glanced back to see that Lady Helena had not yet moved, sitting motionless and staring into the fire, as though mesmerized by its low-burning flames.

Meg hesitated, wondering if she should linger, then shook away the idea and continued up the stairs. If Lady Helena wanted her company, she would have requested it. But Meg sensed that the Dowager Comtesse had slipped into her own well of deep thought and preferred her solitude at the moment.

.

**xxXxXxx**

.

A hand relentlessly shook his arm, breaking him from uneasy slumber.

"Awaken, Vicomte, you are needed."

Five months of being conditioned to wake at any time of the night and be prepared had Raoul hasten out of bed, his sword in hand before his mind fully registered the minutiae of the situation. Sensing no apparent danger, his eyes sought and found the professor. Raoul awaited the introduction of his next test.

Professor Portier regarded his student with approval. "There will be no further training. You are needed elsewhere and must leave at once."

Surprised, Raoul tossed his sword to the bed and glanced up at the skylight. The moon hung crested high in a nighttime sky. It was nowhere near dawn. But he knew better than to question, having learned a reason always existed for the professor's bizarre and eccentric expectancies of him.

"Where am I to go?" Raoul pulled his breeches up over his nightshirt, tucking in the tails.

"To Rouen."

"Rouen?" He paused momentarily before resuming with dressing. "Is my aunt in trouble?"

"No, but she will have need of your services."

Raoul nodded, not asking further questions, and pulled on his boots. The professor gave him a plate of bread and cheese and a tankard of strong coffee that swiftly removed the lingering cobwebs of sleep from his mind.

"What have you learned during your time here, Vicomte?"

Raoul set down his mug on a nearby table. "Hesitation before action does not always denote cowardice," he cited the words by rote, the lesson having been a hard one to learn, "but a man must always remain on his guard to confront whatever situation arises."

"Very good. And rushing to conclusions?"

Raoul's face warmed. "Can lead to more trouble than the original dilemma would have entailed."

The professor nodded pensively, smoothing his white goatee with the fingers and thumb of one hand. "You have learned well, young Vicomte, very well indeed... Yet bear this in mind: not every conquest requires a battle to be fought with a weapon of steel or iron. It is sometimes more expedient to end a conflict with the power wielded inside the mind. To think logically. To reason wisely. There too, you must be careful. Words can be their own arsenal and should be wielded with the greatest of care. A harsh or false word badly spoken can take far longer to heal than a cut from a blade or a hole from a bullet. Some never do heal."

Raoul nodded as he finished the last of his meal.

"You have come far since your last visit within these walls. Your previous deficiency in certain areas no longer prove to be a grave flaw in character that could become a handicap to those around you. Yet in one area you have achieved an overabundance. It is an area that is a detriment to most men, and has been a stumbling block to all men of the de Chagny line. You know it as one of the seven deadly sins. Pride…"

Raoul winced, having not expected absolute praise, but he didn't see himself as overtly proud. All nobleman achieved varying degrees of arrogance from the time they left their bassinets as tots, brought on by the responsibility of their station and necessity to learn to manage large estates. Raoul had been bred to issue orders to men and women four times his senior, ever since he learned his letters and numbers. He didn't see a problem existed, as the professor thought, but chose not to air his petty grievances.

"Pride is a vicious impairment," Professor Portier went on, peering intently over his half-moon spectacles as if recognizing the sudden hardening of Raoul's heart and trying to get through that barrier. "It can cause a greater man to think less of those around him and a lesser man to feel he can never amount to an equal."

At Raoul's clear surprise, the professor continued, "Oh, yes. Pride takes on both extremes. To the man who thinks too highly of himself, it can become his destruction, since prudence is not often a method of choice and humility never acts as a buffer. And to the man who considers himself far beneath his peers, unworthy even to breathe the same air, pride takes on a perverse form, to the point of that man's utter exclusion from society - which, in turn, robs the world of receiving those talents awarded only to him. A pity indeed. Both extremes are lethal to the bearer and to those with whom he comes in contact, and both have been visited upon the men of the de Chagny household for generations."

"Why tell me this?" Raoul finally asked, frustrated by the Professor's warnings.

"Simply put, to be aware is to exercise true wisdom. To put that skill into practice will ensure victory, a feat you will need to accomplish much more in the days that are coming than in how to excel with your sword." The professor nodded to the discarded weapon on the bed. "Be aware, young Vicomte, a dark day is at hand. You must put behind you the tendency to be stubborn and truly listen to the message you will receive, not only with your ears but with the workings of your heart. Only then can you triumph over the adversity that will befall you and visit those closest to you. Only then can you become a guardian of light to help others find their way out of the darkness of their adversities, as you were meant to be and do."

Raoul had long been accustomed to the Professor's enigmatic orders of direction and prophetic words of caution and now gave his counsel grave regard. His astute teacher must have some sort of sixth sense to have known all the details with regard to the dark spirit that had been vanquished in Spain. His contacts must amount to many, though most were unknown to Raoul, save for the one time he had gone up before their secret committee, the same men who sent him on his first mission to the Paris Opera House. The council and his instructor were well informed with all that went on beyond these ivy-covered walls, whether in France or in Spain. Since the day he'd been approached to join their secret society, when he thought all hope lost to him, Raoul often wondered the sum of their number. When he had asked, the professor's answer of, "many" had been vague and hardly rewarding.

"Once I arrive in Rouen, who do I approach that I might receive this message?"

The professor's smile was faint, almost secretive. "You will know when the time arrives."

.

**xxXxXxx**

.

With his eyes long accustomed to perceive images in the dark, Erik was at once aware that his daughter had not issued the scream. But upon hearing the terrified wail, Angelique came awake with a start, as did Christine, who instantly drew their now crying daughter into her arms.

"Erik?" Christine whispered, fearfully looking in his direction.

He knew she could not see as he could in such blackness and briefly clasped her shoulder in reassurance before hurrying to the foot of the bed where the cry had come.

"Little One," he whispered in her tongue, kneeling beside the child. "What ails you?" Once the small gypsy would have shied away from him in fear or issued another anxious scream at his approach. Those days were long past. Now the child burst from her covering to throw her arms tightly around his neck. He drew her quivering body close. "Tell me," he urged. "Another nightmare?" The child, no older than six, endured a vast number of them.

She shook her head violently against his neck. "A bad man." Her small fingers dug into his back as she lifted her head to look in the direction of the window.

Erik looked behind him. The pane was in darkness, the moon on the other side of the tenement. He doubted the child could have seen a thing.

"It was no more than a dream," he consoled, though he wondered if her dream was an omen. The little gypsy had been gifted or cursed, he wasn't sure which, with the ability to see the future in her slumber. The oddity had helped to save Christine's life, making Erik aware of the danger to circumvent it. But her unusual ability also made Luminitsa feared by the other children of her tribe. The veil she insisted on wearing over her deep scars and the cause for them also had made her an outcast among her peers. Luminitsa's plight had been one of two reasons Erik agreed to Christine's heartfelt request to bring the orphaned sisters with them to France and become their guardians.

A knock at the door caused him to swiftly look that way. "Enter."

Dominique opened the door, holding a candle. The sight of her in her nightdress, her feet bare and her hair dangling past her hip in a braid surprised him as much as the image of his face shocked her - judging by the manner in which she gasped, her eyes going wide.

_Damn!_ He had forgotten. In a silent entreaty of demand he held his arm over the bed toward Christine, who understood and grabbed the mask, placing it in his hand. Before he could fasten it around his head, Dominique spoke.

"If that is on my account, don't bother. The sight of your face does not offend me, sire - that is, my lord…Count." She cleared her throat of awkwardness and stood taller. "I heard a scream. Is anything amiss?"

Erik wavered with indecision before laying the mask aside. "The child had a nightmare."

The girl, who had learned some of their language, fiercely shook her head against him. "No bad dream," came her muffled response, and he realized that Luminitsa had buried her face in his shoulder and the cause for it.

Miguel came up behind Doiminique, who lit two candlesticks with her flame. He gave her an intent glance before looking at Erik.

"The child? She is alright?" The former captain of the evil Don was the only other man Luminitsa trusted. He alone of the original inhabitants at the villa had helped save the girl from certain death by his men, initiating her escape, so that Erik and Christine would find and take her back to her people. He alone, of all the Spaniards, Erik had trusted enough to give the seasoned officer a position as his guard at the villa. This past winter Miguel's wife had died, and with no roots holding him to Spain he had traveled with them, continuing his services.

Erik gave the man a curt nod. "Dominique, if you would make a pot of coffee. It promises to be another long night."

He looked at his wife who had modestly pulled the sheet over their daughter, Angelique again trying to find comfort at her mother's breast. Christine nodded slightly to him in encouragement, her eyes gentle. The tenseness in his jaw eased. He took a deep breath and nodded in acknowledgement.

She alone understood his difficulty in relinquishing the mask in Dominique's presence. Among the gypsies, to go without the covering had become a habit, many of their number bearing grotesque scars from the Don's sadistic torture to care about the appearance of a deformed man who had been to them a savior. All in their tribe had grown up hearing the prophetic legend of the man with half a face, the only hope of saving their people, and had accepted Erik freely, knowing him to be that man, even making him their king. But he was in civilized society now, and Dominique had not seen his excuse for a face since he'd been a boy trapped in a cage. However, there were more urgent matters at present than the discomfort over the absence of a mask.

Narilla shoved her way between Manuel and Dominique and hurried forward. "Luminitsa - is she -?"

"Your sister is alright," Erik assured her.

Narilla knelt beside them and reached for the girl but Luminitsa's hold around Erik tightened. Armando and the fair-headed boy suddenly appeared at the door.

"Capitán," Erik looked at him then flicked his eyes to the door.

The man understood the unspoken order and moved toward the boys. "Come with me, the both of you."

"What is wrong with Luminitsa?" Armando insisted.

"Nothing that concerns you," Miguel said grabbing both boys by the shoulders and steering them to the next room.

"Help Madame Giry with what she needs," Erik quietly instructed Narilla. "Your sister will be alright."

The older girl hesitated then nodded and slowly retreated, looking at Madame. His aide gave a conciliatory smile to the girl, glanced at Erik in confusion, then both of them left the room.

"Erik, bring her here."

He looked toward his wife, who pulled back the sheet, exposing the empty mattress beside her. Erik pushed himself up to stand, still holding the girl. She wrapped herself around him like a vine and didn't loosen her hold, even as he came to a stop beside Christine. He tried to pry the child's arms loose from his neck without exerting too much pressure to hurt her, but she only tightened her legs around his waist. She may be tiny, but she was strong and determined not to let him go.

"Luminitsa," Christine gently urged, smoothing one hand against her back. "It is alright now. You are safe."

"The bad man…"

"No one will harm you. We will make sure of that."

Erik felt the tension slowly begin to drain from her body.

"Come, Little One. You may lay beside me for the night. Would you like that?"

Luminitsa hesitated and faintly nodded her silky head against Erik's cheek. He laid her on the bed and Christine brought her free arm around the child, drawing her close. Erik covered all three of them and shared a look with Christine, who smiled with a weary nod. He smoothed the hair from her eyes with a light sweep of his fingertips, glanced down at his daughter, sleeping peacefully once more, then moved toward the window. A small pane of uncovered glass, it sat high in the wall, out of reach to the tallest man. Whether the child had or had not seen an intruder, Erik would take no chances.

Putting his back to the side of the wardrobe, he pushed with all the strength he had in him, moving the heavy furniture the inches needed to block most of the window. He looked back to the bed to see Luminitsa's huge dark eyes peer over Christine's side, watching his movements.

"You are safe," he reassured the child then looked at Christine. "I must speak with Dominique. I will be near, should you need me."

She nodded, and he moved to the door, extinguishing with his fingers one of the candles in the wall sconce that Dominique had lit. Luminitsa whimpered.

"It's alright," Christine reassured, looking at Erik. "He'll leave one candle lit."

Erik nodded in acknowledgement, with one last glance at his wife, who looked like a glowing Madonna, with both children lying against her. How she could look both angelically reverent and enticingly provocative was a mystery to him.

"Try to rest, my love."

At her adoring smile, he closed the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar, so that he would hear in case she called out for him.

In the main room both boys sat near the hearth, quietly conversing. Madame worked with Narilla near the cookstove. His officer was nowhere in sight and Erik assumed he swept the perimeter to ensure Luminista's fears were unfounded.

Erik took a seat at a nearby table, the events of the evening predominant in his mind. Narilla approached, barely stifling a yawn. Erik managed a weary smile.

"Go to bed."

"But Luminitsa…?"

"Luminitsa is safe. She will sleep with Christine tonight."

The girl nodded and left. His gaze went to the boys sitting by the fire, but he sensed eyes upon him and turned his head toward Dominique. Instantly she averted her attention to the task at hand. Three more times this happened, not doing anything for Erik's temper, which was on a short, explosive wick.

He slammed his palm flat on the table. "What?" he growled.

Dominique gave a little jump. The boys turned in surprise to stare.

"What?" he demanded, rising to his feet and glaring at his aide. "You wish to speak? Then damn you, say your piece!" His attention briefly went to Armando. "Go. Both of you."

Armando grabbed the other boy's arm as he scrambled to his feet and both boys scurried into the parlor without again looking his way. Erik's attention swerved back to Dominique. "Well?"

Mute, she stared at him, which only fueled his irritation.

"Can you not speak, Madame? Does the fear of this face unmasked now paralyze your tongue?" He waved his arms out to the sides. "Perhaps the memory of its horror waned since the time we were children and you first beheld the beast within his cage?" He struck his fist against his chest. "_**Then look,** __**damn you! Go on- take your fill!**_ **_Nothing here has changed. Nothing ever will_.**"

"_You_ have changed," she said in a low voice, betraying only a slight tremor. "And you have not."

"**_What in the hell is that supposed to mean?_**"

"Sit down, Erik, before you wake your exhausted wife and child with your outburst."

He wasn't sure if he was more stunned by hearing her finally speak his name after over two decades of knowing her, or by her act of addressing him as a mother would an unruly child. Her former behavior of subservience had instantly disappeared. The dual shock swiftly drained him of the torrential eruption of anger, and he sank slowly back to the bench.

An awkward silence thickened the atmosphere as he stared into the flames with narrowed eyes, pressing his lips together, and listened to her resume her task. Miguel entered, followed by Celeste in her usual disguise of a boy's garb, and he assumed the girl had been with the horses. He thought about scolding her for taking to the streets after curfew and putting them all at risk due to her strong affinity for the creatures, then decided it wasn't worth the trouble. He felt certain from the stern expression on Miguel's face and the manner in which Celeste scurried to a far corner and laid down on a blanket, her back to them, that the former captain of the guard already had given her a sound tongue-lashing.

"Any sign of trouble?" he asked his guard.

"No, my lord. Save for the solider stationed on the corner, there is no sign of anyone lurking about."

"Very well. You should get some rest too. I will need you to drive Madame Giry to the nearest station whenever she wishes to go."

There was a clatter as Dominique turned, almost dropping a dish. "Oh, but I couldn't impose." She glanced swiftly at Miguel, then back to Erik. "I plan to hire a carriage to take me to the depot."

"Enough. I took care of your needs when you lived in my kingdom. I made the vow to do so again once I returned to Paris. Let the matter stand."

Dominique gave an uneasy nod. Miguel looked away from her and announced that he wanted to take another look outside then left.

Erik was physically exhausted but mentally alert and knew the effort would be wasted in an attempt to sleep. Dominique brought a bottle to the table and two glasses. He raised his brows.

"The coffee won't be ready for some time. I thought, given the circumstances of the evening, this would help."

She poured. Erik lifted his glass in a halfhearted toast and drank a third of it.

"May I?"

He motioned to the bench across from him with a casual wave of his hand and nod. "Sit."

She did and poured herself a glass then took a sip. Her gaze went to Celeste, lying with her back to them.

"Perhaps now you would ease my curiosity about the children?"

He set down his glass, keeping his fingers at the stem, and gave a short nod. "Armando's father is the present king of his gypsy band, with whom Christine and I gave our aid and remained for over a year. The boy's presence with us is due to the request of his father, to be my apprentice and see the world so that one day he might become a better leader of his people."

Her mouth parted in amazement. "Your apprentice?"

He gave scoffing chuckle. "Ironic, isn't it, that a band of gypsies in the forest could see what no one save for you and Christine would acknowledge at the opera house? Music…"

"They know?"

"They know." He glanced to the far side of the room. "The _boy_ in the corner is Cedric, a French orphan who found his way to Spain and the presence of our company - after robbing me of my purse and Christine's ring on our journey months before that. He tends to the horses."

She blinked, shocked by the revelation. "The ring? But it was on Christine's finger. I saw it."

"Yes. It is now in its rightful place. She did not have it for months."

"Mon Dieu," she whispered. "That could have been bad…"

"That time in our lives was hardly without difficulty. We had enemies at every turn." He looked at her. "I take it from your words, you know of the legend?"

"Oui, of course. Gustave told me the story when he entrusted me with the ring, to keep in safety until Christine chose her husband."

He gave a slight, pensive smile. "And all those years I thought I chose her."

"You chose each other. I knew of her decision on the night of the Bal Masque."

"As soon as that? You might have told me."

"Would you have listened?"

He snorted softly and raised his glass in a mock toast. "Touché." The whispers of darkness were all he had heard at the time.

Dominique worked to curb a smile and took another sip. "She may have attended with another, but her heart was with you. It was clear in her every gesture and look as she approached you on those stairs. You two might as well have been alone, for all the notice you gave to the other guests once you focused on each other." She helplessly shook her head. "But there were so many difficulties, too many difficulties. And the Vicomte -"

Erik frowned. "I have no wish to speak further of that night or of all that led to the demise of my kingdom."

"Of course." She sighed and drank more of her wine. "And the other children? How did they come to be in your care?"

"Narilla is Christine's ladies' maid and also helps her with Angelique. The Little One, Luminitsa, is her sister."

"Why does she wear the veil?" she prodded gently when he paused.

He narrowed his eyes. "A necessary adornment that stemmed from the evil of demons who posed as soldiers."

"Soldiers? They harmed her?"

"Imagine the worst scenario that could exist," he said grimly, "and you might come close."

Dominique pressed her hand to her heart. "Oh, how terrible...the poor child."

"She insists on wearing the veil except while sleeping. The other children in her band showed their disgust of her face. They mocked and belittled her for all of what she has suffered. Their actions came as no surprise." Erik grimaced. "We who have suffered life's injustices, the scars, the deformities, are nothing more than outcasts and monsters in a world of _perfect_ people." He sneered the last words.

Dominique looked into her glass. "They hurt her very badly then?"

"They tore her face open with a blade after they smashed her innocence."

"Mon Dieu," she whispered and set down her glass with a bang, clearly shaken as she realized the full extent of his words. "She is only a child!"

"And bears the wisdom of men ten times her age, without needing to speak a word."

Dominique stared at him curiously. "You share a special affinity with her."

"We bear a common hardship."

"No," she said thoughtfully, staring at him. "It is more than that."

"I know how cruel the world can be to the innocents who bear the vicious mark of being different. She has yet to learn the extent of such persecution, though Christine and I will do what we must to guard her." And that was the second reason he had agreed to bring Luminitsa to France - the need to protect the girl had grown inside Erik since the night he and an unconscious Christine lost their first child, when the Little One had looked past his scars and been a sole comfort to him.

Dominique shook her head sadly. "You've come so far, yet in some matters you have not changed."

"That is the second time you have made such a declaration. Explain yourself."

She hesitated, framing her words. "To see you walk so…freely…among others, comes as a great surprise. To see how freely they accept you."

"Without the mask," he interjected sarcastically.

"Yes." She straightened her shoulders, bolstering her courage. "In all the years I have known you, I have never seen you without one."

"If my face offends you…"

In disgust, he pushed himself up with one palm against the table, intending to quit her presence - stunned when her hand suddenly covered his. He narrowed his eyes at her in curiosity.

"Your face does not offend me. That is not what I meant. You have not changed in that respect. And I had hoped that by now…"

Her words trailed away as he continued to stare so intently, and she withdrew her grasp.

"As I told Christine, for what must be over three decades I have daily lived with the knowledge of hatred, fear, and disgust - over this." He waved a hand toward his flawed face. "Do not expect some miraculous conversion to occur and that I will forget all the torment or tormentors of my past."

"Not everyone is to you an enemy, but I think you have discovered that truth from what I have seen here tonight. That you would give aid to _gypsies_…." She shook her head in amazement.

He laughed in scorn and reclaimed his seat. "Do not give me credit where it is not due. I was backed into a corner. Agreeing to help the Romani was the only way I could obtain a priest who would ask no questions and perform the marriage ceremony for myself and Christine." He picked up his glass and drank the rest of his wine in a few swallows. "I have satisfied your curiosity and I tire of this subject. Tell me now, of your daughter. Christine is worried. Does she have just cause?"

With a sigh, Dominique poured more wine for herself. "She learned the truth of her heritage and despises me for it."

"All of it?"

"Most. Enough."

Erik recalled the day when Dominique Giry with her infant Meg had come to him when he'd been a young man, telling her sad tale of a naïve woman betrayed. She had pleaded for him to intervene with the imperious managers to give her a position and lodging. She had given him aid as a young, frightened boy, bringing him to the opera house to live. He could do no less and had not refused, writing a note that night with instructions to hire Dominique, his first communiqué as the Opera Ghost.

She shook her head bitterly. "I should have told her sooner. As the years passed, I had foolishly hoped if the truth was never mentioned, it would never have to be. That it would somehow cease to exist. But she found a stack of old letters I kept and later confronted me about them. She has not spoken to me since she learned of my deceit."

"This trip you are taking involves your daughter?"

He noted her hesitance to speak and wondered as to the cause.

"Meg has become a companion to a Dowager Comtesse who lives in Rouen, and I have decided to move to that town and find a home there. Paris is no longer what it was since the terrible unrest of last year." She tilted her head, deep in thought as if reliving those moments then gave another weary sigh. "After receiving a recent letter from Rouen, I feel I should not tarry, but you and Christine should stay. My lease is not up for three weeks. The place is small and spare, not what you might be accustomed to, but my neighbors keep to themselves and you would be safer here than at a hotel, where it would be more difficult to hide."

"After what happened in the last hour, can you be so sure it is safe?"

"The child screaming? I thought she had a nightmare."

"Luminitsa has the uncanny ability to see the future in her dreams. If in her slumber she did witness a stranger's threat to my family, I will not so quickly dismiss her words as insignificant. Her dreams are what saved Christine."

"Perhaps then, you will not wish to remain. But in all of Paris, I can think of no place safer. There are those who might still remember the night of the Don Juan."

He gave an abrupt nod. "The past shall always haunt me. Mistakes cannot be so easily erased…I will consider your offer to stay."

She nodded and stood slowly then moved toward the cookstove. "Or…perhaps I have a better answer." She looked in his direction. "Come with me."

"With you?"

"Yes. Bring your family to Rouen."

He arched a wry brow. "The Dowager Comtesse would not mind uninvited strangers showing up unannounced on her doorstep?"

"I know her well enough to be assured that you and your family would be welcome at _Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose, _what is fondly called Whiterose." She poured coffee into two cups and brought them to the table, setting one before him. "The estate is huge and peaceful, nestled away in the countryside. It has rose gardens and a pond with ducks and geese. Vast expanses of lawn, with a forest nearby. It would be a lovely place for the children to roam and know safety..."

Erik peered intently at her face. Since Dominique had introduced the subject, she avoided his eyes, as if in guilt, making him wonder. But her rambling words were light and hardly blameworthy. He shook his head. The hour was late. He was exhausted after weeks of travel, with little sleep and mounting tension that never seemed to ebb. Surely he read something into her actions that failed to exist.

"Very well, Dominique. I will consider the matter."

.

**xxXxXxx**

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you guys are still enjoying this...**

**For those waiting, I have finally finished the next chapter of Come to Me too. I still need to go over it and polish. But expect it up soon as well…**


	3. The Beginning

**A/N: At long last…(and yes my friends, in light of many recent reviews for another story- I am still writing Come to Me and will post the next chapter soon, hopefully this coming weekend…) This chapter deserves the rating.  
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><p><strong>Chapter III<strong>

_**1838 – Canteleu, France**_

_**.**_

"Oh, Helena. You look magnifique!" Lysette brought her hands together, clasping them beneath her chin in a mix of sheer envy and awed adoration that only an awkward girl of thirteen could possess for a beloved sister. "You will catch the eye of every nobleman present. Soon, they shall all be vying for your hand in marriage."

Helena studied her image in the looking glass, tilting her head first one way, then the other, fluffing the coiled ringlets dangling over one shoulder, a shade between brown and copper, that she had painstakingly formed with a narrow rod of iron heated over the coals.

It would do, though she wished she had a true lady's maid with a gift for hairdressing, since she was no longer in want of a nanny – and her now seventeen! Then again, a lady's maid might stifle her desire for freedom to act and do as she pleased.

"It would please our parents if I were to capture the interest of a Comte, or even a Baron - but really, Lysette, all I wish to do is dance!" Helena spun about on her chair, her smoky green eyes sparkling with excitement of the imminent ball downstairs.

"You _don't_ _wish_ to marry?" Lysette regarded her as if she had committed a cardinal sin.

"I suppose it must happen in due course. It's expected of all eligible daughters of wealthy gentlemen, and heaven knows, Maman wants a title in the family. I hear it often enough. But I wonder just how tolerant of a union an impoverished noble would need to be to overlook that piracy was the root of our family's great wealth?" She laughed in delight.

"You don't know that for certain," Lysette argued. "It's only speculation that our great grandpère was a privateer."

"A pirate, dearest. Let us call it what it is and not mince words." Helena grinned wickedly. "Oh, to sail the seven seas – to visit Spain and the Far East and pillage treasures and live in adventures such as he did!"

"Only according to legend. And I see that look in your eyes – you know that Père will never let you to learn to fence!"

Helena rose from her vanity table, smoothing the flounces of her pale yellow silk. She had received his refusal that morning and it still stung. Had she been born a boy, there never would have been a need to ask!

"More's the pity. A granddaughter of the infamous Captain Jacques Tristian – being consigned to take part in the dreary pastimes suitable for a lady. I care not a whit for needlework, so suppose I shall have to content myself with penning poems that extol the adventures of such daring scoundrels as he."

"Love sonnets?" Lysette said with a girlish giggle.

"Heaven's no! What do I care about love? I haven't time for such folderol."

"You don't _want_ to fall in love?"

"What's the point? Père will soon have his way and marry me off to a titled stranger if it pleases his purpose, so why should I put forth the effort to involve my heart?" she scoffed. "Love is not for me. And until the day Père consigns me to that eternal dungeon of drudgery, I shall glean what enjoyment I can – such as nights like these, where the music can take me away and I may dance to my heart's content!" She held out her arms and spun about in two full twirls with an imaginary partner.

Lysette giggled. "And you call _me_ fanciful."

"No, dearest…" Helena tipped her sister's elfin chin and kissed the tip of her freckled nose. "I'm a pragmatist with a penchant for excitement – the more the merrier – and I do so love music! Not _all_ pastimes are drudgery. At least Maman had me trained, and it is exciting to create my own runs, even if they're not Mozart or Beethoven. But one can only play the piano so long before the fingers feel like they might break and fall off." She grinned and straightened, pulling on her long white gloves over those slender fingers and grabbing her painted fan. "Now, wish me well and I'll be sure to sneak you up a few pink-iced tea cakes of which you are so fond."

"I wish I could go." Lysette pouted.

"Your time for such extravagant affairs will be upon you before you know it."

With that reassurance, Helena practically floated out of the room in a whish of chiffon and silk. Already she could hear the musicians tuning their instruments, and she hurried down the staircase as quickly as possible, giving reason for Maman to later chastise her and call her a hoyden should she see such an exuberant entrance. She had failed to fasten the strap of her dance card holder to her wrist well, and to her chagrin, the accessory fell as she reached the bottom step.

"Blast," she muttered beneath her breath.

Before she could retrieve it, a large hand plucked the small receptacle from the ground. The owner of the hand, a tall, lean gentleman with golden-brown hair and eyes of silver-gray, straightened to face her, giving a short bow.

"Enchanting…" The flattery he uttered came low and she waited, but he did not return the item.

"Monsieur," she began, endeavoring to be polite, "you have something which belongs to me?"

"I did not know that angels would be in attendance tonight," he mused.

By the sardonic tilt to his lips she could not decide if he was engaging in mild flirtation or teasing her. Only recently returned home from finishing school, she did not know many gentlemen in the area and could not recollect having seen him when she was a young girl. Surely she would have remembered such an arresting face, clean-shaven, his features proud. He filled his suit well, his shoulders broad with not a spare ounce of fat to his form – but an attractive presence did not excuse rudeness.

She lifted her chin in disdain. The act hardly satisfied – to look down at him over her nose as she had done with cheeky boys was ineffective, since he towered head and shoulders above her.

"S'il vous plaît, monsieur…my _carnet de bal_." She held out her hand in demand.

"Ah, yes…" He looked at the little silver embossed book as if just recalling he held it. To her shock, he pulled the small pencil from the loops, flipped open the leather and silk guilloché cover, scanned the empty lines of the three pages, and wrote something on the last one.

She blinked, immobile, even once he laid the booklet in her gloved palm. His chuckle is what unfroze her. At once she opened the book to see.

The gall! He had scribbled what she assumed must be his name on the last line – an illegible scrawl – and without them even being properly introduced!

"I shall await the last dance, mademoiselle," he bent over her hand, but before he could kiss it, she snatched her fingers from his. Her intended slight did not deter him, his eyes twinkling in victory.

"I don't even know your name, monsieur."

"Lord Edward De Chagny. And you are Lady Helena DuChamps, otherwise known as the Angel of the Stairwell."

"What folderol," she muttered low and swept past him, as if he did not exist. Warmth suffusing her face, she went directly into the ballroom to seek out friends.

The nerve! She resolved not to give the titled cad even one brief glance the entire night – even should her mother push him in her path – and certainly _never_ to dance with him…

The evening progressed in a flurry of gaiety, her dance card quickly filled. Helena danced with young and old, titled and non, barely able to hear introductions made over the orchestra near which she stood – not that it mattered. The men were merely partners to sweep her across the ballroom floor, some short, others tall, some quiet, others talkative, and she endured all of it. Only one man did she wish had never signed her book, and that at the thinly veiled urging of her mother. A dour man she recalled only as a vicomte, his blue eyes were filled with darkness. He held her hand too tightly and moved too stiffly, as though his bones decried the merriment, though age was not the reason, since she supposed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Not once did he smile or talk, his only greeting toward her a nod in meeting and another in parting. No matter his surliness to be in her company, she felt his eyes on her more than once during the night, and when she dared to look, she shivered to discover that she was correct.

Nonetheless, she did not let that one fly in the ointment douse her pleasure to partake of the evening festivities. She laughed and mingled with old friends and conversed, when she wasn't dancing. Her fourth ball to attend, and she was as excited as if it had been her first. As the night waned into early morning and the final dance approached, she found herself scanning faces in the crowded room, her palms growing damp beneath her gloves.

Foolishness, utter foolishness, and she told herself that if he should have the audacity to appear, she would make a flippant excuse and walk away.…

Yet when the musicians performed their final song and he did not come to claim his dance, Helena felt a surprising stab of disappointment she then shook away. Perhaps he'd left the ball early. She had not seen him present for hours. At least it saved her the effort of having to refuse him.

Once the guests had departed, Helena still felt much too excited to sleep. Before gathering the promised sweets for Lysette, she wandered onto the terrace, letting the cool breeze refresh her. The night was peaceful, and she relaxed, resting her gloved hand against the rail.

"Perhaps, instead, an Angel of Moonlight…"

At the sudden low masculine tenor, Helena jumped and spun around in startled shock. The abductor of her dance card holder approached from the path near the bushes and came to a stop before her.

"What are you doing here?" She cursed the breathlessness in her voice. "And do stop calling me such ridiculous names."

In the strong glow of the moon, she could see his curious amusement. "You don't like to be paid compliments?"

"I don't like empty words that are meant as nothing more than to flatter a woman's vanity. They hold no sway with me."

"And if they are not empty but sincerely spoken?"

She frowned at his persistence. "You have not answered, monsieur. Why are you here?"

"To claim my dance."

She blinked in confusion. "But - the ball is over." She gestured to the open French doors and the empty ballroom.

"Yes, and I offer my apologies for leaving you unattended. We left quite suddenly. My mother was feeling poorly, and since my family arrived in one coach, I needed to leave with them. I rode back as soon as we arrived at the manor."

Her first thought – to tell him that it hardly mattered since she had no desire to dance with him – stalled upon hearing his explanation.

"You left and came back?" she whispered incredulously. "Why?"

"I told you. To dance with you."

His quiet response brought a rush of warmth through her blood. "But – we cannot dance. The ball is finished. There's no music…"

"Isn't there?"

At his mysterious smile, she felt perplexed, awaiting what he would do. He held out his hand for hers. Feeling almost as if she was in a trance, she instinctively placed her gloved hand in his. He drew her closer.

From within the bushes, strains of a violin sweetly wavered in the air, and she glanced in surprise to see one of the musicians nearby, who nodded toward her in acknowledgement.

"I waylaid him before he could quit the premises," her uninvited dance partner explained. "You see, I could not forego the last dance with you. It is considered the most memorable, remaining with us long after the music has stilled.…" – and with those words, he slowly whirled her around the terrace in the beginning of a waltz.

She did not pull away as she ought, finding the entire episode dreadfully shocking and darkly exciting – an adventure to be lived….

"My lady, you have a guest."

Marian's dour presence interrupted Helena's reminisces. Her mind abruptly left the bright days of her youth and innocence – to try to make sense of the current situation.

"What - _this early?_"

The sun had barely crested, producing a rosy glow through the drawn curtains. She instantly recalled her appearance, still in her wrapper and bed gown, where she had fallen into a light doze near the now cold hearth, her graying hair twisted in rags beneath her bed cap. She had awakened minutes ago to recall current events…which had again inexorably taken her back to the ghosts of her past, many of them long dead.

"I cannot see anyone in this state! Who has the gall to show up at my door at such an indecent hour?"

"I do. Pardon the intrusion. I felt it was important…"

Helena gasped in stunned surprise as the newcomer swept past her maid and moved into the parlor chamber, uninvited.

Most assuredly, an inherited trait.

Grimly she smiled at that knowledge – and that perhaps at last one of her petitions would not go unanswered.

.

**xxXxXxx**

.

The carriage drew to a stop in front of the depot. Dominique hesitated, as if she wished to say more. His anger still a glowing coal ready to burst into flame, Erik impatiently looked at her across the short expanse.

"Yes? You wish to speak?"

"I wish you would reconsider coming to Rouen, Maestro. Paris isn't safe these days, and I fear you will soon see that only too well. Meg has dearly missed Christine, and it might help, for her to come – might help Meg, with all – with all she's been through…" Her words fumbled, her manner less certain as the glower on his face deepened to a dark scowl.

She had every right to be nervous.

Sitting next to him, Christine squeezed the top of his hand that rested on her knee.

He took a deep breath, attempting to bottle up his irritation with Dominique for reintroducing the topic – after he had so harshly declined an hour ago.

"I told you, neither I, nor my family, will ever darken the door of _a de Chagny! _How you could ask it, _even suggest it_, is beyond the scope of reasoning."

It not for the boy, Jean-Claude, who had slipped up that morning in asking Madame Giry how long she would be staying at Lady De Chagny's, Erik might have never known of his former aide's duplicity.

"You don't have to stay at Whiterose," Dominique quietly stated, "though I know you would be welcome. Helena De Chagny is unlike others of her rank –"

"I don't give a damn about her rank – it's _her family_ that disgusts me."

She flicked her eyes to the window, watching as the Captain took her baggage down from the coach. "There is an inn, in Rouen. I'm quite sure you would be comfortable there…"

"And I am quite sure we would not! _**Cease with these manipulations at once, Madame!**_"

He let loose with the vitriol that had exploded within upon first hearing the name of the Dowager Comtesse with whom Dominique would be staying. The only deterrent that prevented his rage from pouring out then was the sight of his little girl, irritable from a night of insufficient sleep, and the realization that his just wrath would provoke another crying attack that Christine would then likely need to quench. The day had started out badly; he did not need two cranky females to add to the chaos of discontent.

Dominique paled and Christine's hand over his again tightened in gentle warning. His temper far from settled, he wrenched away from both women and burst out of the confined carriage to try to regain composure. Spotting Miguel pushing Dominique's trunk from the top, Erik approached his driver to inform him of the change in plans …

Inside the carriage, Madame leaned forward and grasped Christine's abandoned hand, now balled in her lap in anxiety for her husband.

"You must persuade him to come to Rouen, my dear, it is most important."

Christine studied her suspiciously. "This isn't just about me being a peaceable third party between you and Meg, is it?"

Madame hesitated. "I wish I could tell you all of what happened while you were in Spain, but it's not my place. But I will tell you this: Paris isn't safe for the Maestro, perhaps it never will be. There are some who will surely see beyond his disguise and remember the Phantom of the opera house, whom they knew as the man in the mask who destroyed the theater with fire and killed its lead tenor to claim you, many barely escaping with their lives. Eighteen months won't change that. Some memories stay with us forever, especially those that come from such high emotion as was experienced that night."

"I also fear there's still danger…" Christine shook her head in frustration. "But he'll not listen to reason and only makes a sardonic boast in return, to try to allay my fears. He has not changed in that respect. He thinks he can always conquer whatever foe opposes him. He did so in Spain, with Don Carlos and the Phantom spirit – but with an entire city against him and only one trained soldier and a boy for aid …"

Madame faintly smiled. "I understand you were not without credit in the outcome. The Vicomte told me of your part in the battle. And how your pure song helped to equip the sources of good with the power needed to combat such dark evil."

Christine glanced at the ring of legend that circled her finger and touched its crystal stones that shimmered brightly, even in the dim interior of the coach. "I found a courage I never before knew I had to stand up to that monster."

"It was not your first time to battle the Phantom. The Maestro told me long ago of that night you fought for him in the lair, the night of the Don Juan. But you had not yet come to accept the importance and strength of your role as his queen. Now you have – it shines from your eyes and in your assured manner – so again I beseech you, Christine, do what you must to persuade him to come to the safety of Rouen. If it appeases your conscience, I'll ask the Dowager Comtesse to extend a personal invitation."

Christine's brows went up in surprise at the offer. "Why should a woman who has never met us wish to make such a benevolent gesture?"

"She has a kind soul. At first, I too had my suspicions about her, being who she is. But she helped us after the Paris disaster and has been there for Meg, allowing her to seek the refuge she wanted at Whiterose."

"I'm sorry about Meg," Christine sympathized. "I do hope she'll see past the pain to work things out with you. It's just not like her to hold a longstanding grudge against someone she loves."

Christine was actually quite baffled. What had changed her dear friend so? Learning that Madame had withheld that Meg's grandfather was alive and a baron did not seem suited to such angry behavior. There must be more that Madame had not told her to have qualified such a bitter response.

"As for Erik, I'll do what I can, but it will not be easy to persuade him now that he knows the Dowager Comtesse is Raoul's aunt. They fought together against the beasts that lived within the villa, but neither man parted on good terms. That same evening, they fought each other with swords, much like that dreadful day at the cemetery..."

Christine grew silent, remembering. The night of the men's second skirmish had also been the night she miscarried her little Fifika. Angelique was a blessing for which she would always be grateful, but she still felt an empty spot in her heart for their first little angel stolen from them by Death's merciless hand.

"I fear there will always be enmity between those two, now more than ever," Madame said and gave a resigned sigh. "I must go. I shall pray for your continued safety."

Madame left and Christine remained inside the carriage, the daylight not kind to her eyes after so little slumber. She dwelled on Madame's curious parting words…why now more than ever? Shouldn't the opposite be true, since Raoul had at last come to accept Erik as her husband, according to his letter he left upon parting from them in Spain? It might be foolish, but she still longed for peace one day between both men…

Erik joined her, taking the seat where Madame had been. Christine looked at him steadily, gauging his mood.

"And now?"

He briefly looked away from her and out the window. "Now, I return you to the others. I have business I need to tend to."

Not happy with his answer, she crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'm going with you."

"Angelique will have need of you."

"If she's hungry, Narilla can give her porridge as she's done before, and Armando is there to protect them." Christine did not truly fear for any of the children; they were safely barricaded inside the tenement, and Armando, fast growing into a man, had proven both his skill with fighting and his loyalty to Erik. She trusted they were in good hands.

"It would be best if you were to return," her obstinate husband insisted.

The carriage began to roll forward. He avoided her eyes intent on his, and she frowned.

"_Really, Erik?_ After all we've been through together – after knowing that the _only way_ we survived all of what we did was _in being_ _together_ – you would go there alone, without me?"

He looked at her warily. "What are you talking about, woman?"

She shook her head softly. "Did you think I failed to notice your rapt expression as we passed the Rue Scribe? As close as we've become, did you think you could hide it from me and I wouldn't sense your intent?"

He briefly closed his eyes. "You have no need to go there. You _should not_ go there."

"We were told that the Phantom no longer holds power over us, that he would never again interfere in our lives. It is no more than walls of rock and an underground lake. I'll be safe, Mon Ange."

"You don't need to see that den of darkness, the place of your nightmares…" He shook his head bitterly.

"Neither do you, but that will not stop you." She reached across and took his hand in both of hers. "It was more than that to me. It was also the place of my dreams – filled with candles and firelight and music. And you. My place was beside you then, and is even more so now – if you feel you must revisit the past, then I want to be there, Erik. With you. It's my past as well as yours."

His eyes were sad. "I fear it is nothing how you remember it. The mob would have destroyed everything belonging to the monster they feared."

Her heart plummeted in dismay at his beastly reference to himself. Since they had returned to Paris, those degrading words which in the past year had at last ebbed from his vocabulary had returned en force.

"Then why go there at all? Perhaps it is best if we both returned to Madame Giry's."

"I cannot explain the pull, Christine, but I feel as if something draws me back." He wryly chuckled. "Has it not been said that a criminal oft returns to the scene of his crime? Or in this case, the beast to his old habitation?"

"No more talk of darkness, Erik. The Light embraced you. Never forget that." She seemed to reach him as he distantly nodded. "It was your kingdom. Our home. I understand the need to see it again."

His smoky green eyes lifted to hers, the look in them intent. "You feel it too? The pull?"

She hesitated then nodded.

"Despite what it later became, it was once my haven. The place where I first found you and you taught me to sing, where we acknowledged our love, the promise of eternity and the music of the night – which I learned was not all darkness, but passion and seduction and everything that made my soul come alive."

"Christine…" The ceaseless ache of regret and sweet poignancy of remembrance filled those two soft syllables. He brought his other hand around hers, lifting her hands still holding his and kissing her fingers.

"Just this once," she whispered, "then never again. Are you agreeable to that, my love?"

He wryly lifted his visible brow. "And if I say no, would you then hire a coach upon our return to the tenement and follow me to the opera house?"

She gave a light laugh, though the thought of revisiting the place where it all started did bring a nervous dread that mingled with the anticipation.

"You know me too well, Mon Ange. Only this time I'll be sure to line my pocket with a bundle of fireplace matchsticks should the flame in my lantern quite mysteriously go out."

His mouth twisted in dry amusement, and he shook his head at her blithe reference to his magician's act of shrouding her in sudden darkness on the night when she disobeyed his orders and followed him through a dangerous forest on his furtive journey to the Don's villa - and he backtracked and took her by surprise.

"I cannot have you become a walking tinderbox ready to burst into flame with one wrong movement…very well, Christine. Only once we are there, you _will_ do all I say and not question or hesitate at a command given. Are we agreed?"

At his grave order, the slight levity between them faded. "You think there might be a danger? The building has long been boarded up. No one resides within."

"Be that as it may, I'll not put your life in jeopardy. There could be vagrants. The tunnels are never safe…."

She no longer feared the darkness, having conquered its source numerous times, but understood the wisdom of his words and nodded somberly.

"I will do all that you say."

.

**xxXxXxx**

.

Meg fastened her bag and left the bedchamber. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Marian walked into view. Meg stiffened her shoulders, clutching the handle of her valise more tightly as the offending maid gave her a narrow-eyed stare.

"I would like to speak with Lady Helena. Is she in the parlor…?"

Marian stepped to the side, blocking her path before Meg could approach the wide double doors.

"The Dowager Comtesse has company and has asked not to be disturbed."

"My mother?" Meg felt a cold wave of shock that her escape might come to naught.

"Your mother has not yet arrived."

Meg would have liked to speak once more with her hostess, but couldn't risk lingering about and having Mère walk through the door. The sooner Meg was gone from Whiterose, the easier she would again breathe.

"Very well. Please inform the driver that I'm ready to leave and to see to it that my trunk is loaded."

"The driver has been given his instructions," Marian replied in her usual sour tone then abruptly turned and left.

Meg bit back a sharp retort to the despicable woman and hurried out the door.

To her relief, the carriage stood ready. She waited by its door and in idle curiosity studied the De Chagny crest: A gold crown atop, the single tower of a castle, a crescent moon below the sun, a sword, a peculiar image of what looked like two cones with a line drawn toward one, and in the center of the images flanking it a symbol stood out she had seen to denote royalty: two golden lions standing on their hind legs and facing one another on a field of blood red. Curious, she studied the family shield, wondering what it all meant, then wearied of the distraction and looked toward the stables.

Anxious that her mother would arrive at any moment, she paced the length of the carriage. Soon the morning sun grew too bothersome, beating down upon her unadorned head, and with one last futile glance toward the stable, she decided to enter the closed coach without aid. Certainly she could manage the feat without a footman – she had been a dancer and had once made leaps across the stage. Even her weaker leg could manage the short climb without steps.

Meg opened the door, set her valise inside and hoisted herself up with little effort. She congratulated herself that with not a twinge, her leg surely must be improving, despite the lack of the habitual use of mineral waters to cure it.

Settling herself on the narrow seat, she left the door ajar, not wishing to be closed up in the airless chamber longer than she must, and directed her glance toward the window that overlooked the road leading away from the manor. Intently she scoured the trees for movement of an unwelcome carriage, fervently wishing Lady De Changy's driver would appear soon and take her away.

The sudden sound of the carriage door slamming shut had her swing her head toward it. She caught a glimpse of a man's long coat and scooted over to try and see out that window. Within moments, she was thrust back against the leather seat as the carriage took off with a sudden jolt.

She didn't know Bertram the driver well – though she knew him to be a quiet, meek little man – but a greeting beforehand would have been nice.

Deciding that all of Lady De Chagny's servants were horribly rude and wondering why the woman continually put up with their company, Meg settled herself in for the ride.

The journey proved tedious, the carriage surely hitting every bump in the road, but it was worth being jostled about to have successfully made her escape. After a time, she wearied of watching tree after tree pass and closed her eyes. Sleep proved impossible, and she decided to try and read, pulling a lightweight book from her valise. The short novel of _The Vampyre_ was quite garish and horrifically exciting, and she was surprised to have found it in Lady Helena's library. Mère would have a fit if she knew that Meg read it. The knowledge gave her grim satisfaction.

Some time had gone by, when to her confusion, the carriage slowed then came to a complete stop. Irritated, she set the book down just as Lord Ruthven, the vampyre, was to seduce Aubrey's sister, and peered out the window, seeing nothing more than a forest. No buildings, no town, and since it was not yet nightfall, certainly they would not have yet reached the inn. The carriage swayed and she heard the soles of the driver's boots hit the muddy road. Nervously she glanced at the door, not surprised when it opened.

But when she saw the face of the man who had done so, all the blood seemed to drain from _her body_ from the shock, and she clenched the seat to remain upright.

"You…"

"Mademoiselle Giry."

The Vicomte de Chagny made a small formal bow.

"But – what are _you_ doing here?" she sputtered. "You're not supposed to be here!"

"That's unfortunate not to mention impossible, since I was delegated to be your driver."

Meg's eyes bulged wider. "You…you can't be," she whispered.

"Oh, but I am. As a favor to my aunt. She didn't want you traveling through the countryside alone, a danger for any woman, and I am in full agreement."

His arrogant words made her bristle. He had no right talking to her in such a high-handed fashion.

"Bertram was supposed to drive me. _I don't want you!_"

"Bertram hasn't the ability to defend a mouse. And it matters not what you want in this case. I am under orders from my aunt."

"To hell you are," she seethed. "You're doing this because **_you_** want to. No one ever makes you do anything you don't want to, Vicomte. I know that only too well…"

Her pride still stung from his abandonment of many months ago. The last she had seen of the scoundrel he had coaxed her in an attempt to make her admit feelings for him then passionately kissed her, and fool that she was, she had not stopped him. Heat singed her cheeks and forehead.

"Why have you come, when you know how much I detest you? You are despicable, the lowest of creatures to walk the face of the earth, like a – like a vampyre preying on the innocents! And you called **_him_** a beast!"

"Now I'm _a vampyre?_" He gave a short laugh. Rather than be affronted, he spoke in weary resignation. "Must we go through this again? Very well. Hate me as you like. Get it all out and call me every loathsome name you can think up. I stopped the carriage to reveal my presence to you and award you that opportunity – as I don't want you making a scene once we reach the inn."

Her eyes widened and the blood that earlier rushed from her now filled her head with a surge, making her dizzy at both his impudence and his implication.

"I – I refuse to go with you one foot further – I'll **_not_ **stay at the inn _with_ _**you** there_!"

He stepped aside and motioned for her to step down with a sweep of his hand in the direction they'd come.

"As you wish. I suggest you start walking back now, so as to reach Whiterose before nightfall. Do be sure to avoid the deep puddles. A recent storm has made the ground wet and I'd hate to see you soak your shoes and catch your death of cold."

She clamped her teeth together so hard her jaw hurt. He knew she would take no such risk, not with her weak leg, and saw evidence of that knowledge in the gleam of his eyes and the quirk of his lips. Damn his arrogance.

"Fine. If I'm to be your prisoner, then let us be on our way and have done with it, so I might rid myself of your company all the sooner and you may then fly off to stalk some other poor creature."

"Prisoner? I do apologize, Miss Giry, I thought you were seeking escape. I am simply the medium for you to execute **_your desire _**to flee in safety. Unless you would rather me turn the coach around and take you back to Whiterose…?"

"Take me to Troyes," she ground out. "But if you lay one hand on me, I'll make certain you regret it – and yes, Victomte, before you ask, I _do_ know _my_ place. The question is, do you know yours?"

"I assure you, mademoiselle, I have not so quickly forgotten."

He closed the carriage door on those enigmatic words, the meaning of which could be taken two ways – neither of them any less troubling – and returned to the driver's seat, leaving Meg in the dark silence of her chaotic thoughts.

.

**xxXxXxx**

.

At the water's edge, Erik slid the boat from its concealed location of bushes and dry land onto the surface of calm water. He checked for leaks before stepping inside then turned to Christine.

"It is not too late for you to change your mind and wait for me here."

"So I can agonize the entire time about what is taking place within those dark cellars? I think not," she said, offering her hand for him to take and help her into his gondola. "I have encountered and conquered far worse in these last two years. The worst is long absent from there, Mon Ange."

He hesitated, his first instinct to refuse. He did not share her positive outlook at again approaching an edifice that had contained such a wealth of danger to them both. Yet when he considered the alternative – leaving her behind and being concerned for her safety – there was no choice. Erik wanted her with him. His great fear of losing her had diminished since Angelique's birth, though it never fully disappeared. Even so, he would not flirt with the Fates for Christine's welfare, though he had every faith in her ability to cope with whatever trouble might come their way.

His Queen had proved her mettle in heinous, even deadly situations time and again, and he recalled the prophet Malakh's mention of her warrior ancestors, having seen that trait also exhibited in his fearless wife, especially when she fought for those she loved.

Christine sat in front of Erik, who stood behind and poled his way along the water's path concealed by tall trees and overgrowth. They reached the obscured opening, covered with vines, that led into the tunnels. The boat slipped through the aperture, which was unseen until up close. To be in the caverns again felt bizarre, a moment relived from another lifetime, when in this same gondola he'd taken her to his dwelling as his inexperienced student, to offer her his Music of the Night – the moment now repeated, almost two years later, with her again the sole recipient of his exclusive music and the other half of their shared destiny together as man and wife.

The intense chill of the caverns bit through her woolen dress and cape, and Christine drew the edges of his heavy cloak around her shoulders, cocooning herself against him and relishing the heat of his body. The last time he had taken her through these underground canals he commanded her to sing, and she eagerly had complied, her voice clear and pure, ringing off the surrounding walls of stone…

Now in this dank atmosphere, she feared to so much as whisper and stir the sleeping ghosts…

No, there were no more ghosts. None that could harm them in any event. But there were the living mortals, above, and she didn't want to alert any who might overhear to their presence.

The darkness was not absolute, the faintest of glows mysteriously coming from beneath the water so that it shimmered a muted bluish-silver. They approached the open portcullis, and Christine inhaled a breath to see both the black drape and red and gold tapestry ripped asunder and partly floating on the water. She felt Erik tense and knew how difficult this must be for him.

One week after the opera house fire, she persuaded Raoul to row her to the lair, in the hope that she might locate her Angel. She had been horrified to see the destruction the mob had wrought and prepared herself for the worst today, certain things would be in even more disrepair. While there was an aura of neglect about the area - once she could see in the light of the five candles Erik magically lit in a candelabrum, as they stepped onto the stone bank - she was surprised to see that the lair appeared to have been _tidied_.

Myriad pages of parchment no longer littered the stones from wall to wall, numerous smithereens of the looking glass no longer shimmered from the ground in front of the three broken mirrors. The throne had been righted and the beheaded and dismembered mannequin lay nowhere in sight. Even the bedding had been straightened, the coverlet folded at the bottom.

Madame Giry must have returned. She could think of no one else who would care about the owner of the lair and its vandalized condition, to try to put it in order. Unless Erik had done so after Christine had last been here. She knew he had returned, alone, for his weapons and some of his gold before they left on their quest to Seville. Much else had been looted, the missing statuary evidence of that.

A glance at her husband showed that he was just as surprised to see the place swept and straightened.

"I came back," she said softly, watching his reaction, "a week after you ordered me to leave you and go. I don't recall if I ever told you..."

He nodded faintly. "You had no need to tell me."

"What do you mean?" Her heart skipped a beat.

"I watched you."

"You _watched_ me?" His solemn disclosure stunned her. "You were _here_ and _saw_ _me?_"

"You wore green velvet and had a black ribbon in your hair," he said distantly, as if remembering.

She blinked. The recollection of how devastated she had been not to find him in his home returned with a vengeance.

"I feared you were dead." She struggled to keep her voice steady, but it trembled with remembered pain. "I thought the mob must have killed you and thrown you into the lake. I wanted to die myself – and now you're telling me that you were here the whole time – _and never made your presence known to me?!_"

He reached for her hands she had clenched into fists at her sides, but she took a step back to evade him. Shadows chased away the candlelight on his face as he turned it from her.

"How could you, Erik?"

"How could I not?" he returned, his voice tense but quiet. "You had the Vicomte with you. Did you truly think that I would show myself with that faithless boy in your company? I did not trust him then. I never will."

His explanation sliced through her soul. Not for the first time she regretted her choice to seek Raoul's aid that morning.

"If I had come alone, would you have revealed yourself to me then?"

He hesitated in giving an answer. "Perhaps. But had you not come at all I would have never approached you in the cemetery. I battled with the urge to do so throughout the weeks that followed. When you cried out for me I could no longer refrain from appearing to you. Seeing you that day, here in the lair, and that you truly cared about what happened to me…touching that so reverently …" He glanced at the music box sitting on the throne, the base no longer lacquered black, when it had shielded the essence of who he was, but once again in its original state, filigreed with crimson and gold. "I saw the tears on your face, heard them in your voice…I felt I had my answer."

"You had your answer when I walked into that freezing cold water and kissed you," she managed.

The remembered pain of finding him gone felt so real, so fresh and raw, and she wondered if such harsh emotion was due in part to her return, to again stand in the place where she once thought to have lost him. And now to learn he had been there all along….

"Where did you hide?"

"Christine –"

"Where, Erik? I want to know."

He compressed his lips and nodded, holding out his hand. She took it, more out of habit than desire, feeling as hollow inside as his absent mannequin, though mannequins had no heart, and hers hurt dreadfully.

He led her down the staircase and to the three mirrors. Two stood uncovered, but one still bore a red and gold wall hanging above, shielding it, and it was to this one that he led her. He looked at her gravely a moment then swept aside the tapestry.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth to see the mirror broken, revealing a hidden passageway beyond. Tears she couldn't suppress left hot traces on her lashes, dripping to her cheeks.

"I stood on the other side of this mirror," she whispered, "I touched this very tapestry with my fingertips. You were nowhere, but I felt your presence so strongly." She let out a strangled sob. "I thought I was going mad. I told myself that it was only because it was your home – why I should feel you here with me – _I cried out for you, again and again! __**And you were within my reach?**__ My God, I might have __**touched you**__ had I only pushed my hand a little farther!_"

Tears ran freely down his own cheeks at her despair to learn the truth, and he clenched his hands at his sides, aching to touch her now but not daring to.

"Every beseeching cry from your lips ripped another furrow in my heart," he told her huskily.

"I wanted to die," she admitted, her eyes falling shut. "I returned to Madame's and refused to eat for days. I didn't sleep – even in my dreams I felt your absence. I wanted to just slip away, to join you in death, but Madame wouldn't let me –"

At her stark confession, Erik let out a hoarse exclamation and drew her to him in a fierce hug. With one hand at her back, the other at her nape he pressed her close to his body. She held tightly to him, melting into his strength, at last finding some comfort.

Beyond the pain of his revelation, what felt a betrayal, logic intervened to help her understand. Raoul _had_ later betrayed them. As much as it hurt to hear this, Erik had been right to stay hidden. Had he shown himself, there was no telling what Raoul might have done. He might have even hired soldiers, concealed, and waiting for Erik to appear.

The terrible shock waned with that knowledge, and she smoothed her hands from his shoulders to his arms, stepping back but not letting go. Likewise he dropped his hands to her waist and kept them there.

"I didn't mean to go on so –"

"Don't, Christine. Your behavior is justified."

She stared into the dark passage, no longer with misery but curiosity.

"You stayed there the entire time you were hiding from the mob?"

"No…" At her raised brows, he continued, "there is a chamber beyond."

"I want to see."

He seemed about to refuse, then nodded. Grabbing a torch he lit it and again took her hand. His skin was cool to the touch, and she found it odd that she could draw such soothing warmth from the contact.

Erik led her down a narrow passage that twisted a number of ways leading to an intersection of tunnels. He took the one to the left, and eventually came upon a small chamber, the ceiling so low, his head almost touched it.

"I stayed here, as a boy, when Dominique first brought me to the opera house."

The room was dank, colder than the lair, even without the lake. The pervasive odor of damp earth and stone lent an ancient feel to the tomblike chamber. A long slab of protruding rock ledge served as a table and noticing an open crate there, she moved toward it. A smile teased the corners of her lips to see the little bedraggled and stained rag monkey that lay atop books and papers, one small cymbal attached to its paw. She picked it up, her smile growing to see the toy wore a smile sewn in brown thread.

"I took that with me when I escaped the gypsy's cage," Erik said. "It was all I had that was truly mine."

At the gentleness in his tone, she looked at him. His expression was calm, his eyes looking with fond remembrance at the toy of his youth.

"When I was a child, I thought of myself as that monkey, dirty, forlorn, wearing ragged clothing…I fashioned the beast on the music box to look like it, making it appear how I wished to become. Clothed in royal robes and sitting on a throne, presiding over my musical kingdom. It is why a monkey sits on the music box that contained my colors."

His disclosure made the little cloth animal that much more dear.

"May I keep it?"

He looked surprised. "You would want it?"

"Of course." She held the rag monkey to her heart. "It was important to you, and that makes it a valued treasure."

He smiled softly. "Do as you like. I certainly have no further use for it."

Her attention drifted beyond him, and she noticed what lay on the ground, by the wall, a short distance from the entrance.

"Is that a…?" Her words trailed away in shock.

Grimly he acknowledged the horrid item. "It is."

"But – why would you have that?"

He looked at the black coffin a long moment before answering. "I made the bed for your comfort, my dear. I never slept in it."

Christine's eyes opened wider at the ghastly awareness even as pain pierced her heart at this newest insight. "You slept…_in that?_" She could barely fathom the idea. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Before you came along, I felt as one dead. After you left, I returned to that state of being."

The slow tears pricked her eyes anew as she again faced what he suffered. While in Spain they had worked toward healing, and with their marriage and the birth of their daughter, found a measure of the happiness that so long eluded them, not forgetting what lay behind, but those terrible days becoming more obscure. To be struck with the verity of his tragic life and the brutal evidence of it so suddenly brought all the pain into sharp focus again.

And there was no telling what other secrets he had not yet told her.

Christine walked the few steps to Erik, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close while pressing her cheek to his chest. "I wish I could erase all of that past. I wish you never had to suffer such horrors."

His hand smoothed a gentle path from the side of her head to her chin, tilting her face toward him. "Then I would never have met you, and Mon Bel Ange, you have given me heaven."

Lost in his eyes, this close to him, reminded her of how much closer she wished to become. Pressing her hand to his cheek, she lifted herself up and kissed him. His response immediate, he circled his arm tightly around her waist, his other hand pressed to her face, his fingertips lightly brushing at her tears. Their tender kiss soon burned into more as tongue danced with tongue, and she whimpered in need.

"God, Christine, how I want you," he whispered against her mouth.

"Then complete me," she begged. "Now."

He pulled back a little in surprise. "What – _here?_"

"I'm not made of porcelain…" She kissed the corner of his mouth and chin then again brushed his lips with hers. "I can withstand cold and rock. Remember that day in our Eden in Spain, when you approached me at the cliff and took me against the wall there…and how many times have we rolled together on the ground…and do you recall that small cave where we found shelter during the cloudburst?" Her hands lowered down his back as she seductively persuaded him, coming to rest against his bottom as she brazenly pressed herself against his hardness and slowly ground her hips against his, increasing his need and hers.

He growled, moving with the swift grace of a wildcat, and swept her up into his arms.

"You shall never have to make such a sacrifice for comfort again, Ma Bel Reine, not if I can help it."

Relying on his sharp night vision which had never diminished, though he now dwelled in the daylight, Erik abandoned the torch and carried her through the tunnels and back through the mirror, into the lair. All the while, she nibbled at his jaw and smoothed her hand down his chest, popping a button of his waistcoat and then another, neither of them stopping their quest for completeness – until he reached the bedchamber. At his abrupt hesitation, she looked to see what made him tense.

The Phoenix bed had suffered at the mob's hands – the mattress and velvet bedding mercilessly shredded, with goose feathers poking out in various places – but she wasn't about to let that deter either of them. Last night's brief physical interlude had been a teasing taste after an agonizing week of torture.

He set her down to her feet in a slow slide, his grim focus on the extensive damage done. Even the black gossamer veiling he once lowered around her on that Music of the Night now hung in shreds.

"It's alright," she reassured, setting the rag monkey on a table and grabbing the huge coverlet from the foot of the bed. She shook it out and spread the thick eiderdown across, relieved to see it still in one piece.

"See? It's perfect," she coaxed, again moving to where he still stood immobile and pulling his waistcoat off and away from his shoulders, shrugging them down his arms and letting the clothing fall to the ground. Immediately she started on his dark maroon cravat, quickly untying the knot.

"I made this bed for _us_ to share," he said huskily as she moved to kiss his bared throat then worked to unfasten his shirt.

"So don't you think it's high time we did?" she persuaded, grabbing the edges of his shirt and drawing him to her as she steadily moved backward. Her legs met the edge of the bed, and she fell onto her back sinking into the soft mattress and bringing him with her. His hands caught himself from crushing her, his forearms carrying his weight.

"I wanted you to have the best, Christine, never again to be in lack. You deserve the world and all the wealth and beauty that lies upon its plate. Not the old ruins and bare rock of a cavern as cold as death."

"All I _want_ is _**you**_," she growled in frustration. "Do not keep me in lack any longer, mon amour. _Love me, warm me…_"

At last he broke from his spell of unfounded remorse and did as she begged, his lips pressing against her neck, his hands making quick work of the fastenings of her dress. She tore at his shirt, and he paused to pull it over his head and toss it aside.

She gasped as his cool hands met her flesh, all quickly warming from his eager caresses. He kissed his way down to her breasts, suckling each globe with tender hunger while she wrapped her legs around him and pressed her fingers into his back and the ridges of old scars, her hands and mouth long familiar with each one.

His lips left her breast, his tongue laving the rigid nipple, before he continued to rid her of her clothing. Likewise she struggled to free him from his trousers, impatient when the fastenings would not succumb to her usually nimble fingers. Once the band was loosened, she slipped her hand inside the rest of the way and cupped his length that swelled even more against her palm.

Erik's hiss quickly became a low, hungry growl, and he ripped the remainder of clothing away from her, barely pausing to do the same with his own clothes, throwing boots aside and tearing out of his trousers. He kissed his way up her body, his large slim hands stroking her skin and worshiping her perfection, pausing to brush his tongue along the drenched center of her desire. She groaned when he tarried, writhing deliciously at his sweet torment, then grabbed his shoulders.

"I need you inside me..." she whispered. "Complete me...now..."

It had been too long, with far too many interruptions, and the times they did come together in past months, it was often hurried, with them both partially dressed, in the sure fear that one or more of the children would soon interrupt, as they often did.

Alone together at last and blissfully naked, Erik stretched out his long, lean body over his beloved's, flesh against silken flesh. His fingertips traced beneath her raised calf to beneath her knee, spreading her leg wider, both of them panting and shivering with desire so long contained but stretching out the moment like the high coloratura notes of an aria, to be savored to the fullest extent. He entwined one hand at the curls near her scalp, while both her hands gripped his hair, and they stared deep into the wells of each other's darkened eyes, half-closed and glassy with hunger.

With slow, tender power he entered her body. Christine softly cried out from the overwhelming sensation of this moment so long awaited, pressing her leg hard around his bottom – the wondrous feel of him naked against her skin and buried so deep inside – the sensual intensity of all of it causing her to shatter beneath him in a few long strokes.

Erik watched her face as she derived great pleasure from his touch, no less amazed than he was during their first physical union in Seville. Eighteen months married to his beloved, and he still could not believe that fortune had favored him so greatly. Burying his forehead against her neck, he licked the dew from her flushed skin.

She gasped and brought her hand to the back of his head, entwining her fingers in his hair.

Sweet and fragrant, warm and wet – his Passionate Rose was the sum of perfection, and he feasted on rediscovering every soft curve and gentle hollow that he could reach with his mouth and hands as he steadily plunged inside her heated walls, drawing out the pleasure and the pain as long as he could withstand it. Her palms slid down his damp back, to his buttocks, her nails pressing into his taut flesh, pressing him into her with each strong thrust, her hips rising to meet his as her desire fully reawakened and she again sought release…

Their tempo escalated, hunger demanding satisfaction. Drowning in the fire of their music she soared with him to heights unimaginable and together they attained their own personal heaven – angel embracing angel in the rosy afterglow.

**xXx**

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you for your reviews – and your patience! It takes longer to post on this story, partly because with so many subplots, including the hidden one, there is a whole lot more research involved with writing it than the others….note: **_**The Vampyre**_** is an actual work of fiction published in 1812. I used that spelling throughout to match with that title…I love it when I read a series, where an event happens referring to an old scene from a former story- something the reader didn't know then but is now revealed – (often with hints dropped) like I did here with the revelation of his presence, when she came back to look for him- brought up in the first scene of the first story, The Quest. ;-)**

**And the first scene of this chapter is also a revelation of an old one from the Treasure, with more to come on that. In short, the entire mystery of Erik's past, (for my sequel) will be revealed in this story…**


	4. An Alliance

**A/N: I heard your outcry – (sorry it couldn't have been sooner, with a lot of unexpected things going on here at home, it just wasn't possible to do any writing or very little, but here it is - and hope you enjoy…) **

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><p><strong>IV<strong>

**An Alliance**

.

Dominique Giry moved through the long dark hallway like a silent, black-winged moth to the beacon of light glowing from the parlor door that stood ajar.

Having arrived at _Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose, _fondly called Whiterose_, _to the disturbing news that her foolish daughter had hours earlier fled – there was no other word for Meg's rapid and stealthy departure – Madame Giry, exhausted from the discomforts of travel and possessing the most horrid of aches in her skull, had immediately sought solace in the room she'd been given to rest. Yet sleep was an evasive beast. The realization that her daughter truly hated her for the falsehoods Madame raised her to believe, (only to protect the ignorant child), pierced her heart. The persistent knowledge that she must now share news that would surely wound her hostess burdened her soul…

But there was no escape from what must be done.

At the threshold, she collected a breath before pushing the door open the rest of the way. Surprised to see the Dowager Comtesse in her nightgown, wrapper, and ruffled bed cap, seated in front of the fire and staring fixedly into its flames, as if lost to another realm, Madame hesitated just inside the room.

Her hostess turned her head and spotted her. "Madame Giry," she said in surprise and straightened. She pulled the edge of her wrapper closer in an instinctive gesture, as if just realizing her appearance. "Do forgive my disheveled state."

"I have no wish to intrude. I'll go…"

"No, please stay. I could use the company. Lady Helena huffed an embarrassed little laugh. "I fear this has become a habit of late – coming here in the night to sit by the fire and losing myself to foolish reminiscing. I should welcome the respite."

Madame remained where she was, uncomfortable to intrude on what had obviously been a poignant or troublesome memory, due to the wet shine in the Dowager Comtesse's eyes. And she wondered if perhaps she should put off her news until the following day.

"Please." Her hostess motioned to the gold, satin-covered chair across from hers.

"If you're sure, my lady…?" At her nod, Madame Giry moved to join her and took a seat.

"I wish you would dispense with such formalities. Let us speak as friends. Call me Helena."

Dominique blinked at such a peculiar request from a noblewoman. True, Dominique was the daughter of a baron, and she and the Dowager Comtesse once before shared habitation when Madame and Meg needed sanctuary after the rebels' downfall and the fire that burned throughout Paris. But they never once shared a true rapport, each of them wary of the other and for their own reasons. Dominique still could not conceive how this woman would let her only child leave her care, whatever her reason of believing him dead, which made no sense and failed to when the Dowager Comtesse first made that statement a year ago, before they were interrupted. The sole purpose that Dominique had come to Whiterose was to see Meg, having felt the elapse of five seasons more than long enough for a separation and for her daughter to find forgiveness in her heart.

Apparently, it was not.

Seeing that her hostess awaited a reply, she gave a slight nod. "As you like." Courtesy demanded she offer the same privilege, but almost two decades of caution held her back, and awkwardly she clasped her hands together on her lap. "I am not yet accustomed to using my given name and still familiar with the practice of shielding my identity."

"Oh?"

"Rest assured, I am not a wanted felon, but then … Meg must have told you all of it," she realized aloud.

Speaking her daughter's name drove deep the thorn of pain she experienced upon learning of Meg's departure from the housemaid. The servant had also told her she just missed Meg's carriage, set off for a destination unknown.

"She mentioned your privileged upbringing as well as your decision to hide it, and her recent discovery of that truth. No more than that." Lady Helena's smoky green eyes brimmed with sympathetic understanding.

Dominique nodded. "If you don't mind, at least for now, I prefer to retain the name by which you know me and be called as such." Perhaps it was a lie, since she'd never married and Meg now knew that, but it was a comfortable lie Madame had grown accustomed to in order to maintain respectability.

Her own little masquerade.

The irony did not escape her, and unexpectedly the memory of Meg's long-ago prophetic uttering, "The face of evil wears many masks" came clear to her senses.

"I know this must all be quite difficult," Helena said, jarring Madame from the disturbing thought. "I attempted to persuade Meg to remain at Whiterose, but she was determined to go. However, I had not realized she slipped away until this afternoon. I had company this morning – the local cleric visited, seeking donations for an orphanage he has newly begun. Forgive me for not being here to welcome you to my home. Once I was told you arrived, I was also told you had retired to rest."

"I desired no one's company upon my arrival, and I certainly do not hold you accountable for my errant daughter's proclivity to slip away."

_This_ time, Madame added silently. She could hardly forget that the Dowager Comtesse helped Meg escape from _Manoir de Ravenwolf_ to this very estate over a year ago.

"Did she mention where she was going? Surely she did not just take off without divulging her plans?"

Though she had done exactly that before, so Dominique did not know why she bothered to ask.

"She told me a friend sent her an invitation by letter to come visit."

"A friend?" Who did her daughter know in Rouen or outside of it to be on such close terms as to stay at their home? "Someone associated with the Opera House?"

Helena lifted her hands in a shrug of remorse. "She did not say, and I did not think to ask. She is hardly a child that I could prohibit from leaving the estate."

And yet, Meg was behaving _exactly_ as a child! "I cannot believe she would take off alone a second time. Has a full year's maturity been in vain? Have life's experiences taught her nothing?"

"I can assure you, Madame, the present situation excluded, Meg has become a very capable young woman, both strong in spirit and sound of mind. You have no reason to fear for her well being. The driver I sent with her is a man I trust implicitly. He would risk his life to safeguard her if need be."

Madame seethed with bitter resentment that she had to be told about her daughter by a woman who had gained the intimacy to know her, yet was a step away from being a stranger – a mother who once abandoned her own child. Where was the justice in that?

She managed a wan smile. "I admit, it is somewhat of a relief that your servant has merited such trust."

"You are mistaken." Lady Helena sat forward slightly, as if to divulge a secret. "The driver is no servant. He is my nephew."

Trickles of ice seemed to freeze inside Madame's blood. "_What?_" she asked hollowly. "Not the Vicomte de Chagny?"

"Yes, it is Raoul of whom I speak; I have no other nephews."

"_He_ has been staying here?" Madame barely masked her disquiet to hear such news. "_All this time?_"

"No, he had affairs elsewhere in France this past year. But I consider it a stroke of good fortune that he arrived when he did, just this morning as a matter of fact. He took the place of my regular driver – a stick of a man with the strength of a willow reed – because I asked it of him. I loaned Meg the use of my carriage but did not feel comfortable letting her go alone. If anyone can watch out for her well being, it is my nephew."

Madame said nothing, barely shaking her head in helpless aggravation. During her last encounter with Meg over a year ago, her daughter made it implicitly clear, without stating in actual words, her untoward feelings for the Vicomte.

"He should not have done that," she whispered.

"Oh no," Lady Helena assured her, "he did not mind the task and was quite willing to help. He thinks as well of Meg as I do."

Rather than encourage, her words caused further distress. Madame felt uneasy with regard to Raoul's true motives toward Meg and gave no response to the Dowager Comtesse's mistaken assumption that she apologized for the Vicomte's peculiar and inappropriate involvement as a nobleman behaving as a servant for her daughter.

"From some things said recently, I feel confident that Meg will soon release this grudge she holds against you. That she said she is 'not yet ready' to see you implies that at some point she will be. You of course are welcome to remain at Whiterose as long as you wish. She assured me that she would return in due course, though she gave no definite date."

There was little else to do but stay. "Merci, I shall take you up on your offer. I have no plans to return to Paris at this time."

"Have you let your tenement go then?"

Lady Helena had just presented the perfect segue to share the news Madame must tell, and she decided not to delay until morning. She had no idea how to proffer such information carefully, to tiptoe around difficult matters was foreign to her nature, so she simply came right out with what needed to be said.

"Erik returned to Paris. He is staying at my flat."

By Lady Helena's blank stare the words at first did not penetrate. Her eyes suddenly grew large and she laid a hand over her heart and pressed her shoulder blades to the back of her chair.

"Erik…_my_ Erik? He is _in Paris_…?"

"Oui, he arrived last night."

Lady Helena let out a soft, startled breath then sat forward in sudden apprehension. "He is well? Is there still any danger of his capture?"

"I cannot tell you if there is or is not; it is impossible to know with soldiers everywhere one looks nowadays, or to know if more than one year was enough time for Paris to forget the night of the Don Juan. With more recent memories of the tragic revolution, I would think that the matter of the Phantom of the Opera has been laid to rest. But I advised him to exercise caution at all times, regardless."

Whether her stubborn and reckless Maestro would heed such advice was another matter altogether.

"And is he well?" Lady Helena repeated.

"He and Christine are both well. They are married and have a child. A little girl."

"Married … a _child_." Helena's eyes slid quietly shut and a slight catch marred her voice. "I have a granddaughter…"

Suddenly she opened her eyes and rose from her chair, walking to the mantel in clear agitation. "I must send for him at once. He _must_ know his true heritage and assume his rightful position here at Whiterose. There is no other choice, and I'll not have it any other way …"

The grave and emphatic manner in which the Dowager Comtesse quietly spoke puzzled Dominique, and she sensed much more lay beneath the surface of things left unsaid. For the first time since her arrival, Dominique anticipated her stay, if for no other reason than to learn more about the mystery of Erik and the woman who had borne him.

"I did not tell him about you, your relation to him, that is," Madame inserted uneasily while watching her reaction closely. "Only that you are Raoul's aunt and a de Chagny. I invited him to accompany me here, stressing that he would be welcome, and I believe he was actually considering it, but he refused when he learned your name. I'm sorry I wasn't successful."

Helena laughed bitterly, her eyes sad, her nod resigned. "It is to be expected. What have the de Chagnys ever extended toward my son but a lifetime of animosity and shame? My husband… and now my nephew, whose sole ambition was to hunt Erik down to kill him."

Her gaze went to a daguerreotype in an oval frame on the mantel. From this distance it appeared to be a couple, and Dominique assumed by her hostess's somber admission that it must be Lady Helena and the former Comte.

"Oh, if I could have those days back to relive, to erase all I set in motion with one foolish and fearful act," the Dowager Comtesse said little above a whisper. "If only I had known then what I know now…" She suddenly straightened her shoulders, as if refusing to give into despair. "But to return to the past is obviously not optional. I can only go forward from this moment – and I intend to do just that."

"I spoke with Christine," Madame offered, a morsel of sympathy prompting her words. "I believe she agrees with me, that Whiterose would be the best place for them at this uncertain time. If anyone can make the Maestro see reason, it is his wife. She alone has ever been able to reach him."

Lady Helena regarded her reflectively. "I should very much like to meet this young woman about whom I've heard so much."

"If you wish it, I will tell you what I know, based on my experiences from the many years I acted as her guardian."

Helena's smile came faint but assured. "I should welcome that, and to know more about my son, as well."

Dominique gave a faint nod, still undecided about the woman's character, due to the cruel abandonment of her child; though her motives to be reunited with Erik sounded pure. Raoul had betrayed them for personal reasons, but despite what transgressions his aunt committed in her past, Lady Helena seemed fervent to rectify former mistakes.

"It seems we share in common children separated from us through mistakes we have made," Lady Helena said as if reading her mind. "Perhaps if we work together, Madame, you and I, we can help one another find a way to bring them home where they belong."

Dominique did not know how such a feat could even be accomplished, but was willing to do whatever it took – even if that meant forming an alliance with a de Chagny.

.

**xXx**

.

Silver moonlight flooded the grass trodden down by the many hooves and wheels from the multitude of horses and carriages that had traveled to and from the inn throughout its many decades of service. That is, where packed mud was not present, the dark, wet earth covering the majority of the area.

With one hand clutching her skirts, the other the frame of the carriage door, Meg wrinkled her nose at the thick black sludge beneath the coach. At least she hoped it was only mud…

"Is there a problem?"

"No, everything is fine," she responded tersely to the Vicomte's casual question as he waited for her to emerge from the coach.

"Would you like some help? Or do you intend to stand there all night?"

He stood beside the coach, having tied up the horse, and now observed her with a cocky grin.

Of course she did not expect him to spread his cloak on the ground for her to walk across – she would shun the offer if he tried! – but she certainly did not need him to watch her like a barn owl as she pondered her predicament either.

"You may take my trunk inside. I'll follow in a moment." As soon as she could find a way to salvage her smooth-soled slippers _and_ prevent a fall. Unfortunately she had packed her unwieldy but markedly more stable boots in her trunk.

"Ah," he said with a slight nod to her haughty directions then grimly shook his head. "Not a chance. I'm not leaving you outside, alone, in these surroundings."

Meg cast a skeptical eye around the relatively quiet area; indeed the only sounds seemed to be coming from _within_ the tavern.

"There's not a soul in sight," she argued her point.

"Not now, there isn't. I cannot swear that will be the case within the next few minutes."

"Don't be absurd. It won't take me _that_ long – wait. What are you doing?" Meg gripped the frame more tightly when it became apparent exactly what he was doing as he swung her into his arms. "Put me down this minute, Vicomte!" She struggled against him.

"Stop squirming or we'll both end up in the mud," he softly ground out as he carried her toward the entrance, fighting to keep his hold on her.

"Leave me be," she seethed, "I don't need a savior!"

"Would you prefer I put you down here?" He lowered her a bit, and she cast her eyes to the slick mud that looked deep, by the condition of his boots. Unwittingly, she tightened her hold on his shoulder.

"I thought not."

At his smug tone, she narrowed her eyes at him. "You are an arrogant bully and a boor, and –"

"And if you say you despise me once more, I _will_ drop you in the mud," he finished for her.

She stared at him with her mouth open in surprise that he, a presumed gentleman, would even _say_ such a thing to her, then firmly clamped her lips shut, caging all the harsh insults she would dearly like to hurl at his leonine head. Sitting as rigidly as she could in his arms, she kept her frozen glare on the arched door of the inn. The moment his foot hit the stoop, she wiggled to be let down, and more swiftly than she would have supposed, he gave her what she demanded. Regaining her balance, she smoothed her skirts, relieved there appeared to be less mud here than what covered the ground – but had barely recovered before he swung the door aside.

"After you, Miss Giry."

She haughtily lifted her chin and entered the noisy room without looking at him, then hung back as the blatant interest from those patrons at the nearest tables focused on her.

The dimly lit room was filled with men, mostly slovenly, filthy drunkards, from what she could tell, loud and boisterous workmen, similar to Monsieur Buquet, and she felt the slightest twinge of remorse for thinking ill of the dead. Spotting the sole woman in the room, she moved toward the long bar at the back. A hand reached out toward her skirts and she skirted away in shock to feel the sudden clutch of her leg.

"Still don't need a savior?" her annoying escort queried beneath his breath from close behind.

Vexed with him and with the drunken lout who dared to handle her, she reached within her cloak and pulled out a dagger she had taken from the Dowager Comtesse's home, holding it up for the man to see. She may be impulsive to make such a journey alone, or so she had thought, but she was no fool to come unarmed.

"Touch me again and I'll remove those fingers, just see if I don't," she threatened, the steel in her voice as glaring as the message of the blade that flashed in the candlelight.

The drunkard's gaze fastened on the dagger gleaming inches from his face in surprise and he recoiled. She felt a burst of triumph to have gotten her message across without bloodshed.

Her unwanted escort grunted in impatience and grabbed her arm above the elbow, hurriedly moving with her toward the bar.

"That was unwise," he reproached beneath his breath.

"What? That I stole your thunder?" she huffed in disdain.

"That you should flash a blade of clear value in such a poor establishment. I recognize it from the library at Whiterose. It was my uncle's. My aunt gave it to me, and foolishly I left it behind when I last visited."

"Fine. You wish for it back then?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Just keep it out of sight."

Meg was not given the chance to respond with the wry rejoinder she wished, as they came to stand before the woman, as ill kept looking as her customers. Her damp hair was straggled, all her teeth nearly rotted, her clothes spotted with sweat; trickles of it ran down her temples. She looked at them suspiciously from behind the counter.

"What you be needing, monsieur?"

"A room for the night, if you please."

"Two rooms."

"Let me handle this, miss," his soft voice held a warning to Meg, his blue eyes briefly going to her, "it's what you hired me to do."

She blinked as she realized his ruse but narrowed her eyes in equal warning that she would not stand for any tomfoolery.

"A room for my lady," he again said to the woman.

"All to herself then?" the innkeeper asked skeptically, casting another curious glance at Meg.

"Of course," Meg was quick to reply and felt the cautionary squeeze of his hand, still holding her arm.

"She won't be sharing with any of your other female guests. And I will sleep in the common room, with the other drivers and servants."

The woman shrugged. "It'll cost you more, for the privacy. Don't have many rooms."

"I am well aware of the extra expense."

"In advance." She held out a grubby palm.

The Vicomte placed a few coins into her hand. She looked at them then grunted in satisfaction.

"You don't talk like a servant," the woman mused, looking him up and down.

"I was most fortunate to be educated by my master."

"Hmph. All them fancy words and that pretty face won't get you nowhere, mark my words, boy. You'll still be common born and a servant 'til the end of your days." As she spoke she turned to collect a key and a lit candlestick, then moved from beyond the counter to the foot of a staircase. "Come along then. Finn, take over," she said to a young man who washed glasses in a steel basin around the corner and out of sight of the main room.

"By _your master_?" Meg wryly muttered beneath her breath as they followed the woman up a narrow flight of stairs.

"Every boy born to the nobility has a schoolmaster," the Vicomte said just as quietly. "She doesn't need to know what kind of master I meant."

Meg softly snorted. "And don't think you'll be paying for my room. I brought money."

"Would I rather not know how you came by it?"

"I didn't steal it if that's what you mean," she snapped in reply. "I didn't steal the dagger either. I would have returned it."

"Perhaps this is not the appropriate time for this conversation," he advised as they came to a corridor just as narrow and dimly lit with few gaslights scattered far in murky globes. The woman led them almost to the end of the corridor before opening a door on the right.

The room was surprisingly larger than Meg would have thought, but sparse, containing a bed, a hearth and two simple wooden chairs. A pile of logs rested against the wall and a worn blanket lay folded on a bare mattress. The woman lifted a glass globe from the lamp mounted to the wall by the door and lit it, bringing more light into the room.

"If you be wantin' water to wash with, Finn can bring you up some. Setting a fire costs extra."

"_Extra_," Meg parroted in disbelief. "It's not included in the price of the room–?"

"That will be fine, Madame, just the water," Raoul interrupted, addressing the woman. "I can build a fire."

The woman sniffed. "As you like." She bustled out of the room.

The Vicomte looked over at Meg who crossed her arms and glared at him.

"Right," he said, "I'll just see to that fire and then get your trunk, shall I?"

He set about his task, placing wood in the hearth and setting flame to the bits of straw stuffed at the bottom. Once the flames sputtered then caught onto the wood, he rose from where he knelt and turned, to see Meg had not budged, though her eyes had followed and watched him.

"Listen, I know it's nowhere as comfortable as Whiterose, or even the dormitory rooms at the Opera House, but it's the nicest inn on the road to Troyes. The alternative is far worse." He brushed his hands together to rid them of ash. "You will just have to manage as best as you can."

Weary of strife, Meg released a brief sigh and uncrossed her arms. She moved to the window concealed by a long moth-eaten drape. Pulling it aside, she shuddered and immediately snapped it shut.

Surely her apprehension to be in such a situation aided to her fear. Surely of the burly men now standing outside, she had only _imagined_ one of them turn his attention up to her window.

"Is there a problem?"

"No," she rubbed her arms and directed a fleeting glance at the Vicomte. "It is cold in here."

"The room will warm up shortly. I will see to retrieving your trunk."

Meg barely offered a nod of acknowledgement. Once he left she moved toward the bed and shook out the blanket, coughing when dust particles floated around her. How long had this been sitting in such a state? Did not many travelers take advantage of a single room and prefer to share?

The boy, Finn, appeared with the pitcher of water and a basin he set on the small table near the bed. She smiled and thanked him. His face flushed and he gave a shy nod then hurried out. Within minutes, the Vicomte reappeared, carrying her heavy trunk on his back. She watched as he set it at the foot of the bed. The unwelcome thought struck her that he was much more appealing in plain shirtsleeves and trousers, exerting his raw strength, than as an important nobleman decked in all his finery.

Angry with such favorable thoughts of his person when she had no wish to think _anything_ about him, she tore her attention away from the shirt clinging to the muscles rippling in his back to look down at her trunk. A thought struck her.

"Damn," she muttered beneath her breath.

He turned. "Pardon?"

Her face warmed at her slip. "I left my valise inside the coach."

"I shall retrieve it for you."

Once he left the room again, she changed her mind. There was nothing she really needed for tonight inside the cloth bag, which contained her few books and trifles and she moved to the door and opened it to stop him. All she really wanted was a decent meal and a good night's sleep.

There was no sign of the Vicomte, but one of the men from downstairs approached from the far end of the corridor, staggering slightly, his face an ugly smiling leer. Instantly she recognized him as the disgusting lout she had threatened with her dagger.

Meg instantly drew back and shut the door then realized with fearful dismay she had no key. Her heart beating hard beneath her ribs, she backed up, sure he would seek retribution, and invade her room at any moment. She made a cursory glance around the room for a weapon. A slim brass candlestick she'd not first noticed sat atop the hearth's ledge and she grabbed it, pulling out the unlit candle and tossing it to the floorboards.

Gripping the candlestick around the bottom, she approached the door and stood at the side of it in wait. To her expectant horror the door swung slowly inward and a dark shape appeared, taking a step across the threshold. Stepping forward she swung, hitting the intruder hard on the back of the head.

The man groaned and slumped to the floor, the murky gaslight on the opposite side of the door picking out the fair glints in his hair.

"Oh, God," Meg dropped the candlestick and hurried a step forward, falling to her knees. She grabbed his shirt in fistfuls below the collar and shook him. "Vicomte! Can you hear me?"

He did not stir and she looked toward the open door and the yawning space of the gloomy corridor, recalling the danger and the need to act with haste. Grabbing hold of his body beneath the arms, she dragged him the necessary distance to close the door, then saw the wood was warped and prevented her from being able to shut it firmly. In frustration, she looked around, her attention catching on one of the chairs with its high back, and she retrieved it, dragging it to the door and lodging it firmly beneath the latch, hopeful it would prevent any unwanted interlopers.

Her attention went to the one man who she had considered most unwanted and she gripped his shoulders, again shaking him.

"Vicomte," she insisted softly. "Wake up… _please," _she whined a little._ "_…wake up." Her brow furrowed when his eyes remained closed. Again she shook him. "Vicomte … Raoul! You need to come awake now." She slapped his cheeks, trying to revive him. "Don't you dare do this to me you horrid man …"

Fearing she had truly killed him, she grabbed both sides of his head, her stomach lurching to feel something warm and wet against her palm. Pulling away her hand, she almost retched to see it covered with his blood. "No- _don't you **dare** die on me!_" She slapped his face harder, not knowing what else to do, certain she would get little or no help from those on the floor below.

"I always knew that one day you'd find an excuse to strike me."

At the low thread of his voice, she softly laughed in relief then briskly wiped away the moisture that had leaked onto her cheeks. His lashes fluttered open and she never thought she'd be so happy to see the azure blue of his eyes.

"What in blazes did you hit me with?" he groaned as he sat up groggily, putting his hand to the back of his head.

"A candlestick. Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Someone else?" He grimaced as he pulled his hand away and saw the blood on his fingers.

"We need to stop the bleeding."

Contrite, Meg ignored his question and with difficulty helped him to stand. Clearly dizzy, he slapped his palm to the wall to regain balance. Undecided, she glanced toward the bed and then the remaining chair by the fire, and helped him toward it. He slumped to the hard seat and leaned his head back against the top edge, again closing his eyes.

Meg set about collecting handkerchiefs from her trunk and wet one with water. She knelt beside his chair.

"Vicomte, I think this will be easier to do if you remain awake."

"You called me Raoul before," he said wearily, "You should continue, since I'm known only as your driver…"

"Yes, alright," She concentrated on pulling the strands of his hair apart to locate the wound and clean it. A nasty bump had risen at the back of his scalp which was split, and she sponged the blood away from the small cut then pressed hard on the wound to stop the flow of blood which came heavy but sluggish.

He flinched at the sudden pressure. "You are gaining an ungodly amount of pleasure from this, aren't you?"

"Terribly much." She tied two handkerchiefs together, end to end.

He barely nodded. "I thought as much … you seem to have experience with this type of thing."

She wound the linked strips of cloth firmly around his head, then knotted it. "Dance instruction comes with its own cuts and bruises ... There." She looked into his eyes, which were half closed, and noted also that his skin seemed paler than usual.

Standing to her feet, she regarded him where he sat. "Perhaps you should rest there awhile, until you feel steady again."

He did not respond and she realized with resigned frustration that he'd fallen asleep or again had become unconscious. By the quiet rise and fall of his chest she assumed there was no reason for alarm.

Struggling with what to do, Meg paced the room. The events had dulled her appetite, and the burst of adrenaline that rushed through her at the mistake in hitting him and the scare of killing him had faded. She now felt quite weary and sank to the foot of the bed. She stared at him where he slept, noting how his long legs had sprawled out, his head resting against the chair and leaning toward his shoulder.

She found herself jerking awake and sat with her spine ramrod straight, rapidly blinking in an attempt to stay awake, before finding herself slumping over in sleep again. The third time this happened, she realized that the desire for vigilance was a lost cause.

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, wondering what to do about her unexpected guest, then decided to let him be. She was to blame for his injured condition and did not feel comfortable about waking him, to suggest he retire for the night to whatever area the common room contained. Judging by her supposedly exclusive room, which was in a questionable state with a door that did not even close, she imagined the shelter for the servants must resemble a sty.

Darting wary glances toward him all the while, she unbuttoned her dress to loosen her corset, knowing she could not sleep in any comfort as tightly as it cinched her. Relieved to again breathe, she slipped beneath the blanket, pulling it up to her chin, her eyes remaining on his still form until she could no longer keep them open.

.

xXx

.

The tickle of something soft, like a breath of velvet air, moved along Christine's collarbone then up her left breast, whispering over her nipple and trailing down the globe to her midsection and her thigh. She smiled a little then giggled with delight when Erik's lips moved to the crease of her neck.

She opened her eyes to see her husband sprawled out beside her, the edge of the blanket barely covering his hips as scantily as it covered hers. In his hand he held a long white feather, one of many strewn on the bed around them. With its velvety tip he made slow and scintillating paths along her skin.

"Mmm," she approved, running her fingertips along his muscled arm. "This is nice."

"Yes, quite. But I fear we have continued the devastation of the mob and entirely destroyed this bed. There is little hope for it."

"I disagree. I think it suits who you are."

"Who I am?"

"My Angel of course."

He rolled his eyes a little at their light repartee then gave a low chuckle. "And I have told you – and shown you numerous times – I am hardly an angel, Christine."

"And I have told you and shown _you_ numerous times, you will always be _my_ Angel."

She gasped when his teeth nipped the lobe of her ear.

He moved over her, dispensing with the feather and clasping both her hands beside her head on the slashed mattress. "Ah, Christine, _you_ are the true Angel, who freed me from my hell and opened your heart to the lonely man hidden behind a fearsome beast. I never thought it possible, but you gave wings to the song dearest to my heart – a lifetime with you by my side ..."

His lips took hers, his caresses sweet and intense. Once more they engaged in their most sublime music, this time, a slow and tender melody that warmed them to the depths of their souls. Together they rolled on the bed as beads of perspiration caused the loose feathers to stick to their damp skin and they truly did resemble such celestial beings – or perhaps one perfect angel, two counterparts joined and complete.

Once their hunger peaked then rescinded, breathing soon eased while heartbeats decreased from their fervent pounding. Tenderly they smiled at one another as Christine plucked a feather from his tousled hair, above his brow. He in turn picked a feather off her shoulder and brushed one from her breast with his fingertips. Leaning down he kissed the dusky rose crest then fell slowly to his back, bringing her with him.

"Mmm, this is sooo nice," she purred in the cozy afterglow, "did I mention that?" She brushed her lips over his chest and nuzzled her cheek against him.

"Mmm," his reply was a low, velvet drone that moved throughout her being.

Realization interfered, prodding at her consciousness as the dreamy haze cleared. She sighed in reluctance.

"I suppose we should return before the curfew begins." The tone of her voice made it clear that the last thing she wished to do was leave his arms.

Since she had begun to wean Angelique, she could no longer gauge the passage of time by the weight of milk in her breasts, which always had given her great discomfort whenever their daughter did not nurse for more than five hours; but that was no longer the case, since her milk had diminished now that Angelique took some solid foods. They could have been lying in bed two hours or five, for all Christine knew or cared, though she suspected the number leaned toward the latter since they'd slept between the lengthy stretches of their lovemaking.

"It is long past that. I would hazard a guess that it is approaching midnight."

"Midnight!" she shrieked, instantly alert, not questioning how he came by such knowledge. Her husband had always possessed an impeccable sense of time when living beneath ground and was never late for their lessons in the days of the Opera.

She popped to sit up. "But what shall we do?! We cannot stay here the entire night, not without telling anyone. Surely Captain Miguel and the children will worry that some ill wind blew our way …"

His smoky green eyes remained peaceful as he tweaked a few small white feathers from her long, wild ringlets.

"You look like an Angel that tumbled into a cloud," he said silkily, gently pulling on a ringlet.

She grabbed hold of his wrist. "You are not the least bit concerned of getting caught on the empty streets?"

"It is wisest for us to travel by night, away from any of daylight's curious interlopers of the city, those meddlesome Parisians who would make it their business to know ours."

"But what if the others worry and, God forbid, go out to search?"

"I told the Capitan to return for us after dark and wait."

His information surprised her. "But what of the curfew?"

"The soldiers look for discord among the commoners, not the aristocracy. They will pay little to no attention to a coach bearing the insignia of a nobleman. Last evening they stopped us, as they would stop any conveyance that sought entrance into the city from the main road leading out of it. Now that we are well within Parisian borders, it is doubtful the soldiers will spare us a second glance, likely presuming that we bear the arrogance of all nobles, to defy foolish conventions that we consider far beneath us…"

Christine couldn't help but smile, thinking how aptly he had just described his own character. Erik was never one to concede or conform to the modes of society, a trait that both exasperated and gained her admiration.

"We are currently the Count and Countess de la Vega – filthy rich and hardly worthy of suspicion in being revolutionists eager to incite a new rebellion. After the display I gave them last evening at the checkpoint, they will know better than to interfere a second time, so as to save their scrawny necks from the wrath of their commanders who I threatened to inform. You have nothing to fear, mon amour, I assure you. Now, come here and take advantage of what rest you can while in the arms of your adoring Angel."

He pulled her willingly back against him. Gladly Christine laid her cheek against his chest, pressing her arms against his sides in quiet embrace, eager to claim every fleeting moment they could grasp.

Once a ruler presiding over the Opera House and all who dwelt within its hallowed halls of music, her king had obtained little knowledge of the world outside its ivory walls. Through necessity and harsh experience, that lack of knowledge had altered; now, he knew exactly how the world functioned. And though he was often still arrogant in his belief that he was indestructible and able to conquer whatever enemy opposed him, no matter their massive weaponry or number, his abundance of confidence to prevail despite the dreadful odds exasperated and exhausted but ultimately always reassured her. He – _they_ – had defeated the most malevolent of foes time and again. Knowing this, she again relaxed, confident of his wisdom and protection.

Another dilemma surfaced to her thoughts, and she spoke of it.

"What will we do, Erik, about the future and our living arrangements? We cannot stay at Madame Giry's forever. We are too large in number."

"I will explore our options tomorrow. Until we establish a place to call home I will secure us a suite of rooms at the hotel."

Christine idly traced her fingertips through the dusting of damp hair on his chest, while her eyes fixed to the low hills and valleys of feathers displaced from the mattress after their passion play. The threads of her conversation with Madame Giry wove into her thoughts, and she pondered if Whiterose was indeed the best solution for them. It troubled her that they would again need to trust a de Chagny with their safety – something Erik may never agree to after the fiasco with Raoul when he betrayed them and she and Erik first fled Paris. Her former fiancé and childhood friend had redeemed himself to her, in aiding her and her husband in their fight with the evil Don and their old nemesis, the Phantom, who ultimately possessed the Spanish noble – but surely a small distant township in the countryside would be far safer than Paris!

"Perhaps we should go to Rouen…"

"No, Christine."

"We don't have to stay at Whiterose, where Madame is visiting. We could find lodgings elsewhere in town…"

"I fear that would be most unwise."

She sighed at the slight edge of steel in his voice, recognizing that to persist would be futile; at least for now.

"Whatever we decide, we should come back here to escape."

"Here?" At her soft words, his hand against her back stilled, as if she had taken him by surprise. "Bring the family to live underground in this hovel?"

"No, of course not – I meant _us_." She pushed herself up, bracing her hand against the mattress. "It was never a hovel until the mob came. You made it into a shrine of candlelight and wonder. We can do so again."

He grabbed her hand. "Why should we _want_ to?"

"This is the place you intended to be our home, a haven of divine music and where we first made our feelings known to one another…"

"A haven? It was my captivity!"

"Only because of _him," _she countered gently. He imprisoned and deceived you – deceived all of us. But we were told by those of the Light that the Phantom has been banished from us, never to return." At his continued silence, she urged, "I'm not suggesting we _live_ here, Mon Ange, only that we, you and I, use this place as a retreat when we wish to be alone. Perhaps to work on our music and compose new operas…"

"Look around you, Christine," he said wryly, lifting his hand to include their surroundings. "This is hardly a place to inspire our Music of the Night. The organ is smashed, surely ruined…"

"The notes dwell within our spirits, do they not? The foundation of who we are? Nothing can detract from that. We worked to compose an opera within our enemy's former home, a home we made ours." She took in the tattered ruins of their bed. "The Phantom once seized your home, the seat of your kingdom, but now, through these last hours spent together expressing our devotion in this bed you crafted for that very purpose – we have taken back what he stole from us, Mon Ange. Clouding the harsh and bitter memories with bright new ones of bliss." The more she spoke, the more eager she became to see the dream fulfilled. "Surely we can restore our hideaway to what it was, if we like – even better. This can become our _new_ Eden."

"_This?_" He scoffed out a laugh. "This cavern of cold and rock is hardly a garden of trees and wildflowers, Ma Reine." He grimaced. "It is now uncanny to me that I actually expected you, a glorious creature of light and brilliance, to _live_ inside this tomb with a creature of darkness."

Though his tone came light and absent of all accusation, Christine grimaced at the reference to her spiteful words, what seemed a lifetime ago.

"Stop it, Erik, please…" she leaned in to kiss him. "Let us not speak of past mistakes when our future is so full of promise. We have been blessed. We have our sweet Angelique, we are at last home, in our beloved France, and we have a life together and a great love that withstood all the darkness that tried to destroy it …"

He nodded slightly, his mood becoming more serious. "Yes, and I am grateful, though at times I still believe I must be in the trappings of a dream. Being in this place now, it is difficult not to recall all of what transpired on the last occasion we were within these walls, all that I put in motion..."

"But we have now created a new memory, a _better_ one," she insisted, determined to steer his thoughts far from that awful night and the black spirit whose goal was to punish them, by destroying their kingdom and their love. "I would much rather dwell on these past hours in bed with you than to think on anything else that came before, wouldn't you?"

"I would much rather do more than just dwell on the memories of these hours," he whispered, his velvet tone tantalizing her senses. "I would rather relive them…" Shivers tingled through her blood at the feel of his fingertips brushing down her spine. "And it is to my deepest regret that we must leave."

She sighed once more lying fully against him and holding him close. "I know. It's been so delightful, to be with you like this again, away from all the cares of the world – able to lie with you naked and make love without haste and at our leisure … to converse without a necessity to sacrifice our time together to attend to some important matter with the gypsies or a need of the children. Something we haven't been able to do since before Angelique was born."

He stroked the back of her head, his fingers weaving into her thick, tousled curls, and smiled. Of all the points of influence to use, she had picked the perfect argument to win him to her favor.

"Very well, Christine. If that is what my queen desires, for this to become our personal hideaway – though I can scarcely call what I long considered my Hades _an Eden – _ then you shall have your wish."

He could feel her smile growing wide against his skin. "I vow to do all that is possible to make it a slice of heaven for both of us, Mon Ange…" She laid a kiss beneath his collarbone, above his heart.

"You are well on the way to doing that," he purred and brushed his lips against her head. "There is a second entrance, more obscure, tangled with overgrowth and hidden beyond the trees and from the roads that might be safer for us to use to avoid detection. I will return tomorrow to ensure it has not become impassable with time."

They talked of their plans for the foreseeable future a little while longer before Erik said they could no longer delay the inevitable. Neither wished to leave the warmth of each others' arms and they tarried with dressing, extending the final moments of their solitude as long as possible.

The steady moonlight forged a silver path to the waiting carriage concealed by a small copse of trees. Thankfully they arrived to Madame's flat without being stopped by any soldiers on watch, Erik had been right about that, but Christine sensed from what experience had taught her that such excellent fortune could not favor them indefinitely.

Madame Giry was right; Paris was no more than a trap waiting to ensnare her husband, the fugitive they all knew as the Phantom of the Opera. And somehow, at least for the present, they must hide within its crowded streets to evade being caught.

**xXx**

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you for the reviews! :) They help more than you know ...  
><strong>


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